The One Where Chandler Gets High
by Jana
Summary: AU. College years fic. Chandler likes weed, Monica likes him, and Ross is weird. Despite the obstacles, can Mondler figure out how to fit into each other's lives? Is friendship ever enough, when you want so much more? Chapter 11 of 11
1. Chapter 1

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter One**

**XXX**

--"Fuck!" Chandler exclaimed, slamming his textbook closed and pushing it off the desk onto the floor. "My brain feels like it's going to explode! What the fuck was I thinking, signing up for six classes? I should have kept it at three, or four, tops!"

"Chandler," Ross soothed, "Just chill, ok? Just take it one subject, one task at a time."

"Easy for **you** to say!" Chandler shot back, "You **like** all that dinosaur shit you signed up for!"

"You like that writing course," Ross reminded, his attention back on the passage he was reading and attempting to memorize.

"That's about the only one," he returned, his agitation only slightly duller. It was nearly a minute later, when suddenly, out of virtually nowhere, he shouted, "Aaahh! I can't even **think** about picking that book back up! Fuck it," he added, grabbing his coat out of his closet, "I'm gonna go pick up!"

"You think that's wise, with it being midterms and all?" Ross asked, his tone almost disapproving.

"Don't really care if it's **wise**, Ross," he answered, pushing his arms into his sleeves as he moved towards the door. "You hittin' it, too?"

After a moment's deliberation, Ross sighed, "Sure. I can take a break."

"Cool. I'll pick up twenty, then," Chandler muttered, then added, "Be back in a few," before storming out the door, slamming it as he left.

**X**

--Ross only glanced in Chandler's direction when he reentered their dorm room nearly an hour later, knowing before he even spoke, that his mission had been successful.

"You seem to be in a better mood," Ross mused, his eyes still on his textbook. "I take it Jarod hooked you up?"

Chandler scoffed happily as he shoved his hand into his pocket, fisting his prize as he removed it and heading straight for his desk. "Oh, he hooked me up but **good**! Check this shit out! This is some seriously righteous bud, Dude!"

Marking his place first, Ross closed his book and spun around in his rolling swivel chair, giving Chandler his undivided attention as he watched him dig in his desk drawer to locate his piece. "You get **way** too excited about this shit, man," he laughed, prompting a wide grin to appear across Chandler's face in response.

Holding the glass pipe up that he had just produced from his drawer, Chandler waggled it at him before gesturing for him to join him over at his bed. "Just wait, man," he told him as he took a seat at the edge of the mattress, "When you see this shit, you'll be excited, too. This shit'll mess you up in three hits!"

"That good, huh?" Ross asked as he inched closer, peering over as Chandler carefully unwrapped his treasure; even **he** could see the quality of it. "Wow," he asked in awe, "How did **Jarod** get **that**?"

"I didn't ask," Chandler answered, steadying the pipe on his lap as he began to break the nugg into workable pieces, filling the bowl with agonizingly slow precision. "You want greens?"

"Nah, man," Ross declined, "This is **your** party, you hit it first."

Smirking back at him briefly, Chandler set the rest of his weed aside, fished into his pants pocket to retrieve his lighter, then raised the pipe to his lips. His thumb covered the carb as soon as he sparked the lighter and applied it to the bowl, then hit it hard, watching the smoke fill the chamber before removing his thumb and clearing it with one sharp intake of breath.

Forcing his lungs to hold it in for as long as possible, Chandler grimaced as he passed the pipe and lighter over to Ross, nodding in approval as he ripped it just as hard as he had. "Did I lie?" he asked as he exhaled slowly, to which Ross simply shook his head as he passed the items back to him.

Several turns later, the weed was all but gone, and Chandler muttered an apologetic, "It's ash, man," before tapping the pipe to his palm and wiping the remnants on his pants. "Fuck," he breathed, dropping his body back on the bed, "I'm so fucking wasted. Dude," he added with a lazy chuckle, "Kick that purifier into high gear, would'ja? We totally hot-boxed the room!"

Nodding once, Ross moved in slow motion, flipping the dial up a notch before collapsing onto his own bed, a low contented groan escaping. Time was distorted, minutes ticking by in silence, seeming like hours, the only sound in the room the hum of the air purifier.

"You know what sounds good?" Ross eventually asked, lazily licking his dry lips in a futile effort to wet them.

"Hmm?" was Chandler's hummed reply.

"Pizza," Ross answered, smiling when Chandler started chuckling softly.

"I'll pay if you call," he mumbled, adding just as indistinctly, "I can't even talk right now."

Laughing, Ross informed him, "Dude, you're talking **right now**!"

"Fuck, Dude," Chandler slurred, "Not **English**!"

"Dude," Ross laughed again, pushing himself upright with effort, "You are **so** high right now."

"Fuck, man, tell me something I **don't** know!" he shot back, laughing along with, his lips curling up into a half smile.

"Ok," Ross muttered, standing, snagging a pizza flyer off Chandler's desk before heading for the door and the payphone out in the hall, "My sister has the hots for you."

Chandler's eyes popped open, staring up at the ceiling as he asked, "Monica?"

"Dude," Ross called over his shoulder as he fumbled with the doorknob, "I only got the one sister."

"Right," Chandler sighed, smirking as his eyes drifted closed once again, mumbling to himself once alone in the room, "She's **hot**."

**XXX**

--Proud of his accomplishment, Chandler gathered his papers, tapped them against the desk to straighten them, then tucked them into his Pee Chee folder before setting it, along with his textbooks, to the top left corner.

"With time to spare," he muttered to himself, pushing away in his seat and reaching to open his bottom drawer; the knock at the door stopped his action short.

Yanking it open, he half expected to see the annoying neighbor that was always borrowing something; he startled at who was standing before him. "Monica, hey. Hi."

"Hey, Chandler," she returned, stuttering slightly, "Is, um, Ross here?"

"No, actually," he answered, almost apologetically, "He went to the library after his last class to finish up one of his papers. You want to come in and wait for him?" he asked, gesturing for her to enter.

Seemingly hesitant, she muttered, "Um, yeah. Ok, sure." Stepping in with a sense of caution, she looked around as her arms wrapped around herself, then slowly took a seat on her brother's bed, avoiding direct eye contact with Chandler.

Seeing how uncomfortable she was, Chandler attempted to engage her in small talk, asking casually, "So, how's that cooking school going?"

"Oh, it's going really well!" she answered, relaxing some, openly excited about the topic. "I'm really enjoying it! I'm already top of my class," she added, smiling proudly.

"Hey, that's great," he returned sincerely, taking a seat on his own bed and across from her.

"What about you?" she asked politely. "How are **your** classes going?"

"Well, actually," he answered, obviously pleased with himself, "I just finished my last midterm paper! I was, actually, just getting ready to celebrate."

"Celebrate?" she asked, amused over the thought of it, though she wasn't exactly sure why.

"Yeah." He eyed her for a second, then stood and approached his desk, his hand on the drawer handle, pausing before opening it as he asked, "Are you cool?"

Shrugging, she muttered, "My classmates sure didn't seem to think so."

"No," he clarified, pulling a clear baggie and his glass pipe from the drawer, holding it up for her to see, "Are you **cool**?"

She stared at the items in his hand for a long few seconds, then asked haltingly, "Is, that… marijuana?"

"Yeah," he confirmed with a smirk, retaking his seat as he asked, "You're not gonna narc on me, are ya?"

"No," she assured him, watching him intently as he packed the bowl, a curious expression on her face.

Catching the look she was directing at him, he asked, "You blaze?"

"Huh?"

Laughing shortly, he said, "Blaze means to smoke weed. Do you?"

"I haven't before, no," she answered, as if ashamed, then quickly added, "I think Rachel has though."

Nodding, he asked, "Ever want to?" When several seconds passed without a reply, he added, "No pressure. Just thought I'd offer."

"I never really thought about it," she near-whispered, adding nervously, "I don't really know how."

"Oh, it's easy," he told her, patting the mattress beside him, inviting her to join him. Slowly, she stood, stepping up to his bed and lowering herself next to him as he began to explain. "This little hole here, at the side, is called the carb. Put your thumb over it, then spark the bowl and hit it. When you see the smoke fill the stem, the chamber, take your thumb off the carb and inhale through your mouth. Watch," he said, then proceeded to demonstrate.

Hitting it hard, he held the smoke in his lungs, choking out, "Hold it in, gets you higher," then handed her the pipe and the lighter.

She stared down at the piece for a moment, then brought it to her lips and followed his instructions to the letter. Once she inhaled, she started coughing, and he fought to hide his smile as he suggested, "Take a smaller hit, till you're used to it." When she moved to hand it back to him, he gestured back towards her, adding, "Go ahead and hit it again. You didn't really get anything the first time."

Trying it again, she took his advice and hit it lightly, holding the smoke in her lungs like he had for as long as possible before exhaling, feeling an odd sense of pride when he smiled back at her and praised her.

"There'ya go! See? Easy!"

Taking the pipe and lighter from her, he took his turn, then passed it back as soon as he was finished. By her third turn, she was already starting to feel the effects, and by the time the bowl was ash, the world around her seemed fuzzy and dreamlike.

"Chandler?" she asked with a chuckle, "Is the room moving?"

"You just got the spins!" he announced with a short laugh, falling back onto the bed, grabbing at her arm to encourage her to do the same. Limply, she allowed her body to drop beside him, and when she did, he told her, "Stare at a fixed spot on the ceiling."

"Your ceiling is filthy," she mumbled, staring at one stain in particular, smiling when he laughed at her attempt at humor.

"We think the guys who lived here before us used to throw wet paper towels up there for sport," he mumbled back, inching closer to her, his fingers tracing invisible lines across her arm.

In her altered state of mind, it took nearly a minute for her to realize what he was doing, but when she finally did, the lazy grin she wore faded in favor of a more serious expression. "Chandler? What are you doing?"

"Nothing," he answered, "If you don't want me to."

Watching her eyes, hoping to read her answer in the blue depths, he waited patiently for her to respond, advancing no further, on the chance it was no.

"And if I do?" she asked as she turned her head to face him; the fact that she was nervous was completely recognizable to him. He would have to go slow. Give her time to acclimate.

Shifting onto his side, he propped himself up on his elbow, almost hovering over her as he placed his hand gently on her stomach while pressing his lips softly to hers. It took a moment of passive acceptance, but soon she was returning his kiss, his affections, her fingers raking into his hair in encouragement for him to continue. When his hand slid up to cup her breast through the two layers of material that separated him from it, she startled and broke away slightly.

"Chandler," she whispered, almost remorsefully, "I've never…"

As she trailed off, he smiled down on her, whispering back in a confident reassuring tone, "Don't worry, we're just getting a little better acquainted. We're not gonna do **any**thing **you** don't want to."

Nodding, she admitted, "I want to kiss you some more."

"Mmmm, me too," he hummed, then asked considerately, "Did we decide yay or nay, on the wandering fingers?"

"Over clothes?" she asked, establishing the rules.

"If that's what you want," he answered, his hand frozen in place till she answered.

"Then, yay," she returned with a nervous grin, it fading as he cupped her breast once again and dropped his lips back on hers.

The kiss grew heated quickly, and as it did, his body gained all the thrill it was going to from feeling hers through her clothing. Braving forward, he removed his hand and slid it down to the hem of her shirt, inching just beneath it to gauge her reaction. When she stiffened, he asked, "So, no **under** the clothes? Even if they stay on?"

"If they stay on," she choked out weakly, his touch and kisses already arousing her; she could scarcely imagine the effect it would have, if he placed his hand intimately on her bare skin.

Holding her attention, staring deep into her eyes, his hand ascended under her casual, loose fitting blouse, pushing her bra up and out of his way to allow his fingers to graze over taut skin before rolling it gently between his thumb and forefinger. He smirked as her eyes drifted closed in pleasure.

"You like that." It wasn't a question, it was a statement, and her expression and slight nod confirmed it. "You want to feel **really** good?" he asked, smiling gently as her eyes met his once again. "Clothes still on," he assured her, his hand continuing to play with her beneath her top; it seemed to take forever, for her to nod in answer.

She had no idea what he had planned, but in that moment, with as aroused as he was making her, she would have been willing to go all the way with him.

Instructing her silently to shift positions, so that she was laying lengthwise on the bed instead of widthwise, he whispered, "Open your legs," then immediately climbed in between them and on top of her when she complied. Her wide eyes, showing slight fear, prompted him to whisper compassionately, "Relax. Our clothes are still on, remember?"

When she nodded, he kissed her lips softly, then leaned his body into hers, their groins touching, then pressed harder as he began to rock his hips, essentially simulating the act of sexual intercourse. Her low moan broke the final straw that was his last grip on sanity, the concern that he was about to make a mess in his pants flying out of his brain as his body anticipated the rush of bliss that was drawing ever closer.

Just a few more thrusts, and he would be there.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

They both startled at the sound of his voice, Chandler quickly pushing off of Monica to sit at the foot of the bed, his arms crossing in front of his erection out of shame. The room fell eerily silent as he took several deep breaths, waiting till his body relaxed before standing to face his friend.

"Dude, that was as far as it was going to go, I swear to God."

Ross glared hard at him, before finally finding his voice. "I don't care!" he shot back. "You shouldn't have gone **that** far!" Then his expression changed, and he stared for a moment, like he was trying to determine something, before announcing, "You're **high**!" His eyes then shifted over to Monica. "You got my sister high?!"

"I didn't force her, man," Chandler defended himself weakly. "I offered, she accepted!"

"Shit, man," Ross yelled, "I **thought** you were my **friend**!"

"I **am** your friend!" Chandler insisted, adding, "Dude, I'm sorry. I guess things got out of hand."

"You **guess**?!" Ross snapped, sighing heavily as he gestured towards a still silent Monica. "That's my **little** sister!"

"Who happens to be eighteen and can make her own decisions," Monica chimed in finally.

"Yeah," he snipped at her, "**Poor** ones!"

"Yeah," she scoffed, "Like **you** don't do it!" When her brother's eyes grew wide, she rolled hers. "The getting high thing, Ross, **not** the making out with Chandler thing."

Settling slightly, Ross muttered, "Yeah, still."

"Whatever," Monica mumbled dismissively, adding, "Look, Ross, **I** seduced **him**, ok? There's no need to lose a friendship over this."

Even with as high as he was, Chandler could remember the events clearly. **He** had initiated things. She had just lied for him.

Discreetly, Monica reached beneath her shirt to fix her bra, then straightened the rest of her clothing after standing, shoving her hand into her pants pocket as she muttered, "Mom wanted you to have this." Thrusting a wad of money at him, she headed for the door quickly as soon as he relieved her of it, then called out softly over her shoulder, "Bye, Chandler."

"Bye, Monica," Chandler replied politely, watching as she left before addressing Ross once again. "I really **am** sorry, Dude. I swear, it'll never happen again!"

"Fine," Ross returned, still holding onto his anger slightly, "Let's just… move past it."

"Sure, man, if that's what you want," Chandler agreed, shifting uncomfortably, eventually asking as he tried to ease into some kind of casual conversation, "You finish your paper?"

"Yeah," Ross answered shortly, asking staunchly, "You?"

"Yeah," Chandler said, his eyes downcast as he shoved his hands into his pockets. "We're gonna be cool at some point again, right?"

"Yeah," Ross sighed, nodding only once. "At some point. Just, give me some space right now, k?" he asked of him, and Chandler nodded sadly as he grabbed his shoes off the floor by his bed.

"Sure, man, that's cool. I'll just go take a walk."

Once out in the hall, he pushed his feet into his sneakers, then headed for the exit. He wasn't three steps out the lobby doors, when he heard his name being whispered from behind him.

Spinning around, he startled when he saw Monica approaching him, and his gaze dropped to the ground in shame as she neared.

"Did he calm down any?" she asked, noting his distant behavior, but recognizing it for what it was.

"Yeah," Chandler answered, "He just wants some time alone right now."

"I'm sorry he flipped out on you," she apologized, adding in her brother's defense, "He's just really protective of me."

"Yeah," he mumbled, his eyes finally meeting hers as he added, "Thanks for lying for me. You didn't have to, though. I started it, I sure as hell can own up to it."

"It just makes sense," she explained her reasoning. "He'll forgive this whole thing faster, if **I** was the one who initiated things. I know how my brother thinks, Chandler, ok? It's nice that you want to, do the right thing, but, just, trust my judgment on this, alright? Just, leave it alone. Let him think it was me. It'll be easier that way, on **all** of us."

Nodding, he whispered, "If that's how you want it, ok."

Awkward silence followed, and she stared at her feet for several seconds, before eventually muttering, "I should get going."

"Yeah," he muttered back, "That's cool."

"I want you to know," she told him seriously, "You have nothing to feel guilty about. You gave me the choices, and I made them. It's that simple."

"K," he returned with a shrug, too uncomfortable to say what was really on his mind, but somehow, she sensed he was holding something back from her.

"Chandler? Was there something else you wanted to say?"

Shrugging again, he admitted, "I had fun with you today."

"Same here," she whispered, the hint of a smile appearing on her face, adding near immediately, and in all seriousness, "Probably best if we don't have **that** kind of fun again, though. You know, for Ross' sake."

"Yeah," he agreed, though reluctantly. "I value his friendship too much, to go against his wishes on this."

Nodding, she said, "Doesn't mean we can't be friends, though."

Perking in response to her optimistic words, he answered with a slight smile, "That's cool."

Smiling back, she said, "Ok, then, I'm gonna get going. Unless," she added, "You'd maybe want to go grab a cup of coffee or something?"

His smile growing wider, he told her, "I know a place, just off campus."

Gesturing for him to lead the way, she fell in line beside him, smirking to herself as she muttered in response, "Cool."

**To Be Continued**

Author's notes:

I want to explain a few things here. For starters, if people are thinking that I did this, to paint 'Chandler' in a bad light, please believe me, that was **not** my intention. It's all in how you interpret things, really.

Personally, I don't think marijuana use is necessarily the evil it's made out to be. As long as you don't let it rule your life, stop you from functioning, change you from the person you are, I don't see a problem with the use of it. In fact, I know someone very close to me who uses **often**, and he is a bright, funny, hard working, dedicated to family kind of person. It's not just deadbeats and criminal types who use it, believe me.

With the mention of Ross getting high while in college (in the show), it wasn't such a stretch to believe Chandler did it too. I just put my own spin on it, is all.

Regardless to your views on this particular subject, I hope you enjoyed the fic!

Thanks for reading, and please review!

MTLBYAKY


	2. Chapter 2

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana~

Chapter Two

**XXX**

--Chandler reread the last few lines, then smiled to himself as he leaned back in his chair, and stared over at the paper admiringly. It was his best one yet. To him it was, at least. He hoped she would think so, too. In the last few months, her friendship, even in its simplicity, had come to mean more to him than even her brother's, though he knew he would never tell him that. Or her either, probably. After what had almost happened, such admissions were better left unsaid.

Scowling at the thought of it, he shook his head to rid it of the negative and focused solely on the positive. The positive being the latest assignment that was still sitting atop his desk, written somewhat sloppily on lined notebook paper, ready to be typed.

The sudden knock at the door gained his attention, prompting him to abandon all complicated and academic musings, the trouble-free task of answering it taking precedence. His expression, his entire being, lit up, when he pulled the door open and saw her standing there. He was so happy to see her, that he didn't even notice anything was amiss, until halfway through his cheerful ramblings.

"Hey! I'm glad you're here! I finished that assignment!" he exclaimed, hooking his thumb and glancing back towards his desk. "**I** think it's pretty good, but I'd love to get your opinion--"

The sniffling sound brought him back around to face her, his excited smile dropping as he finally realized, she had tears in her eyes, and stains from previous ones in streaks beneath them.

"Oh my God, what's wrong?" he asked, concern edging to panic when she threw herself into his arms and began near sobbing into his chest. Holding her tightly to him, stroking her hair as she cried, he took several careful steps back away from the door, encouraging her to move with him, then kicked it closed with his foot so that students passing through the hall wouldn't stop to gawk. "Monica," he whispered, trying again for answers, "What's going on?"

"The asshole dumped me," she whimpered, then sighed heavily in an attempt to gain control, embarrassed over the spectacle she was making of herself.

"Kip dumped you?" he asked, to which she nodded silently in response. "Why?"

Pushing out of his arms, swiping the wet angrily from off her cheeks, she shot back, "Because he's an asshole!"

"Yeah, he is," he agreed, "But, I mean, did he give a reason?"

"He gave a reason," she muttered, then sighed again as she stepped over to his bed, dropping down onto it as her face fell into her hands.

Silence followed, save her occasional sniffles, and it was then that Chandler realized, if he didn't press for answers, he wasn't going to be getting them. "Mon? What reason did he give?" When she only shook her head, he sighed and moved cautiously towards her. "Tell me," he asked of her as he knelt down. Wanting to touch her consolingly in some way, he fumbled with what to do with his hands, but eventually deciding better of it, he opted to place them in his lap instead.

"I wouldn't put out," she finally mumbled; even with her hands obscuring most of her face, he could see the reddening of her cheeks.

"God," he whispered, his gaze planted on the floor as he struggled to find the right words to say in response. When nothing came to him, after several long seconds, he offered the only ones he could think of, lame and insufficient as they were. "I'm so sorry."

"And then my mom! God!" she exclaimed, pushing onto her feet, her grief turning to anger, "You know what **she** said, when I told her?" It was rhetorical, but he shook his head in answer anyway, then shifted to sit in the very spot she had just vacated. "She said, maybe I should have!" she announced, scoffing dramatically. "Can you **believe** that? Most moms are **against** their daughters being sluts! And I actually got lectured for **not** being one!"

"Your mom's a whack job, Monica," he offered evenly, as if it was a statement of fact. "It's a **good** thing that you don't sleep with people, just to keep them in your life," he assured her, knowing she already knew that, but voicing the opinion all the same. "You shouldn't have to do anything but be **you**, to keep people in your life," he continued, "And if the person has half a brain, that alone is more than enough reason to want to be in it."

A tiny smile appeared in response, but it dropped seconds later, as did her body, into the chair beside his desk. "If only it were that simple," she sighed.

"It **can** be!" he insisted. "If someone doesn't appreciate you, for who you are, then cut 'em loose! You don't need 'em! How stimulating could their company be, **anyway**," he added jokingly, "With them having less than half a brain?"

Laughing, shaking her head in amusement, she said, "I knew you would know just what to say."

"Don't I always?" he quipped, pushing off the bed to stand, approaching her as he asked, "Hey, ya'know what you need?"

"A mom that doesn't hate me, and a boyfriend that isn't only after one thing?" she asked in return, smirking.

"Besides that," he laughed, reaching past her and towards his desk drawer. She knew what was coming, before he even produced the items from it.

"We're kinda making a habit of this," she mentioned carefully, glancing at the pipe and clear baggie, which easily showed off its contents, before shifting her eyes up to his.

Shrugging, he muttered dismissively, "It's not like it's a problem or anything. You're a straight 'A' student, top of your class, and I get mostly 'B's," he added, gesturing for her to leave the desk chair and retake her seat on his bed.

"Well, yeah," she agreed, complying with his silent request and relocating, watching as he plopped down in the rolling swivel chair and inched himself up to his desk, "But, what about all those commercials? About how it causes brain damage and stuff?"

Scoffing, he said, "Ignore the hype. You know how many brilliant people in the world smoke weed? Hell, everyone I know who does it is far from a blithering idiot!" he added, steadying his pipe on the desk as he began to pack the bowl. "Like you and Ross, for example."

"Ross," she whispered, pausing as if in thought before asking, "When is he due back, by the way?"

"Not for a while," he answered, "Why?"

"I don't like smoking in front of him," she said with a shrug. "He's too overprotective. And he harshes my buzz," she added, smiling when he laughed in response.

"Not to worry, my friend," he assured her, "The great protector won't be back for hours!"

"How sure are you?" she asked, her smile fading. "Where is he, even?"

"Some lecture about reptiles that have been dead for a million years," he answered, deadpan, then extended the pipe towards her as he offered, "You get greens. You need it more than I do."

Reaching out to take it, she muttered, "Thanks," then took the lighter he tossed onto the bed beside her, sparked it, and hit it hard. The ease and grace with which she did brought a smile of appreciation to Chandler's face.

"You need to rush back home?" he asked, then quickly took his turn so he could pass it back to her.

"No," she answered, holding the pipe in her lap for a moment, "Mom is on my **last** nerve. Why?" she asked, then brought the piece and lighter up to hit it again.

"Just, figured, we could hang for a bit," he answered, shrugging, then took the pipe from her when she passed it back.

"Yeah, actually, I was kinda hoping I could," she admitted, almost hesitantly, then added, "Rachel's off with Barry again."

"I wasn't your first choice?" he asked, struggling to keep the disappointment from his tone.

"No, you **were**," she answered, "But, I wanted to have a back-up plan, just in case you weren't here. Or you were busy."

Nodding, secretly pleased, he quickly took his turn, choking out as he held his breath, and the smoke in his lungs, "Cool," before handing it off to her again.

Watching her hit it, he could see that very little smoke filled the stem, prompting him to gesture for the return of the pipe so he could inspect it. Tapping it against his palm, he surveyed the contents, and upon realizing it was, muttered, "It's ash. Sorry," he apologized, then asked, "Want me to pack another?"

"Nah," she answered, her speech only slightly elongated, "I'm good."

Curling up on his bed, she was only vaguely aware by the sounds he was making, that he was returning his pipe and stash to the safety of the desk drawer, then she heard him flip on the air purifier, the hum of which seeming ridiculously loud in comparison to how quiet the room had been before.

"Scoot over," she heard him ask of her, and she slowly opened her eyes in response, gazing up at him, smirking as she noticed his pointed index finger wiggling in gesture for her to move.

Rolling away from the edge and towards the wall, she ended up with her back to him, fighting with her weight distribution in an attempt to get comfortable when he climbed in beside her.

"You ok?" he asked, sighing when she hummed indifferently in response. "He's an idiot, Mon, ok? He's not worth it."

"Kip smokes weed," she muttered, having no real reason for mentioning it other than to make conversation, but Chandler took the simple comment to mean something else entirely.

"Kip's not an idiot cause he smokes weed," he told her, defending his habit, "He's an idiot cause he has less than half a brain."

"Do you think I'm pretty?" she asked out of nowhere; the abrupt change in topics surprised him.

"Hey, hey! What kind of question is **that**?" he asked, turning on his side and towards her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly against her.

"Just asking," she muttered in answer, her eyes drifting open to stare at the wall in front of her, responding only in that way to his touch.

"Of course I think you're pretty," he answered insistently. "You're **gorgeous**, in fact!" he added, then sighed as he added, "Just cause some asshole is only interested in sticking his cock in you, doesn't mean you're **not**."

"He said I wasn't," she whispered, her eyes closing again as new tears stung the back of them.

The desire to find Kip and beat the shit out of him was racing in the back of his mind, though outwardly, he showed nothing but gentle compassion. "He was just trying to hurt you, Mon," he said, snuggling up into her, his arm draping over her as he spooned her. "Trust me," he added, his cheek resting against hers, "You're **very** beautiful."

"Touch me, Chandler," she asked of him in a whisper. "Show me how beautiful you think I am."

His heart pounded in his chest, the adrenalin rush he was experiencing dulling his high, and he licked at his dry lips futilely as he begged of her, "Please, don't ask me to. You're depressed, and vulnerable, and it would make me as big an asshole as Kip, if I were to take advantage of that."

"You're not taking advantage," she countered, the sting of rejection causing her voice to quiver, "I'm **asking** you to."

"You're asking for the wrong reasons," he whispered, desperately trying to find a way out of the predicament thrust upon him without hurting her, or caving.

"How do **you** know what my reasons are?" she asked, her slightly whimpered words causing an ache to settle in his stomach.

"I know you're in pain right now," he returned, firmly but soothingly, "And me groping you won't change that."

"Please don't reject me, Chandler," she said through fresh tears.

"I'm not," he assured her. "I'm, just, preventing future pain. I'm protecting our friendship," he added, "And my friendship with Ross. I care too much about both of you, to risk losing either of you over an act committed in a moment of weakness."

"He never has to know," she told him, still holding onto a thread of hope that she could convince him.

"**I** would know," he replied, closing his eyes tightly and kissing her temple when he heard her sigh in frustration.

"You're too decent," she muttered, unable to stop the slight smile that formed when he laughed in response.

"Is that a compliment or an insult?" he quipped, nuzzling back against her cheek.

"Both," she answered, sighing again as she added, "I wish you were a little bit of an asshole."

"If I **was**," he replied, "You wouldn't like me as much as you do."

"Maybe that would be a good thing," she said wistfully. "Liking you is hard sometimes."

"How so?" he asked, posing the question despite the fact that he was dreading the answer.

"I don't like being told, how much I'm allowed to like you," she said, biting her lip in waiting, to see if he would catch the hidden meaning within her words.

"We promised him, though," he reminded her, letting her know indirectly that he understood what she was trying to state. "It's weird for him. I don't know **why**," he added, "But, it is."

"He's being unfair," she complained, almost whining. "He should **want** me to be with a good guy! If he's friends with you, he obviously thinks you **are**!"

Not knowing how to respond, he sighed heavily, then, attempting to drop the subject, announced, "We need to smoke another bowl. This conversation has completely destroyed my high."

"Sorry," she muttered in apology, making no move to join him when he left her side and shifted to leave the bed.

"You should be," he joked. "Weed's expensive!"

When she didn't laugh at his quip, he turned to face her. Noticing that she was in the exact same position, her back to him, he sighed as he pressed one knee into the mattress, leaning over and attempting to gain her attention by touching her shoulder. "Mon?" he whispered, applying gentle pressure so that she would roll over. She shrugged him off, and he sighed again. "Mon, don't do this. C'mon," he urged her, "Come smoke another bowl with me. It'll make you feel better," he insisted, then added, almost sadly, "I want you to feel better."

"If that were true," she countered, "You wouldn't have rejected me."

Dropping into a sitting position, his right leg tucked under him, his left dangling off the side of the bed, he whispered, "Please, don't look at it like that."

"How else am I supposed to look at it, Chandler?" she asked, slightly irritated.

Off her tone, he sighed in defeat, then answered, "See it for what it is."

"Which is what?" she pressed.

Pausing, searching for the right answer, he eventually decided on, "A sacrifice."

Intrigued, she turned to face him, finally, then pushed herself into a sitting position and stared back at him for a long moment before asking, "So, if not for Ross, you would--?"

"Don't ask it, Monica, cause I can't answer it," he interrupted her, looking away and to the floor.

"Can't or won't?" she challenged him, though her tone more curious than angry.

"Can't," he told her absolutely. "Neither answer will give you what you want, anyway."

"And, what do I want?" she asked.

Locking eyes with her, he said, "You know what you want, Monica."

"Yes, I do," she agreed, "But, what I **don't** know, is, what **you** want."

"Right **now**," he sighed, breaking eye contact, pushing off the bed to stand, "What I want, is to smoke another fucking bowl of weed."

Hurt by the shortness of his tone, she watched him as he retrieved the pipe and weed from his drawer, remaining silent as he sat at his desk and began packing the bowl, considering her options carefully before finally speaking up.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, deciding to broach it, rather than dismiss it.

"No," he snipped, continuing on task.

"You seem mad," she whispered, then fell silent as she waited for a response that never came. At least, not directly.

"You hittin it, too?" he asked, his back still to her as he took the first turn.

"I'm not sure," she replied, approaching him cautiously.

"It's not a hard question, Monica," he snapped in exasperation, causing her to jump slightly.

"You **are** mad," she stated, stepping up behind him, her hands sliding from his shoulder to down his chest as she wrapped her arms around him and leaned into him. "I'm sorry I upset you," she whispered, her breath tickling his ear.

Shuddering, his willpower just barely holding, he did nothing but breathe unevenly for several seconds, before he finally regained his head. He shot up out of his chair, almost violently, moving away from her quickly and to the other side of the room. Turning to face her, he glared hard as he whispered, "Don't."

Confused by his harsh demeanor, she asked as she slowly started walking towards him, "Don't, what?"

Continuing to stare back at her, his expression softened as she neared, his anger dissipating by the time she reached him.

"He never has to know, Chandler," she assured him, then crossed her arms around the back of his neck as she pressed her lips to his.

Responding initially, his hands darted to her waist, his fingertips digging into her flesh as he hungrily kissed her back, but when realization hit him, he grabbed her arms and pushed her away from him, almost knocking her to the floor.

"No! Stop it!" he demanded of her; the pained look in her eyes did nothing to deter his anger.

"Chandler," she whispered, but that was all that she was able to say, before he cut her off with an unintelligible sound.

"Leave!" he ordered, pointing at the door, his hand noticeably trembling.

"What?" she gasped, completely taken aback, struggling to make sense of what was happening.

"Get out!" he barked, his glare growing harder as he locked eyes with her.

Lost, confused, she whispered, "I don't understand--"

"Get out!" he repeated, interrupting her, "What's so hard to understand about **that**?"

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, tears welling, then spilling onto her cheeks.

Answering indirectly, he shot back, "See? I can be an asshole!"

Stunned, she stared back for a long few seconds, then broke down and shouted back, "Wrong kind of asshole!" before running for the door and out it, slamming it in her wake.

Guilt and self directed hatred assaulted him, his body shaking in response, his mind a chaotic mess as his eyes saw through and past anything and everything he tried to focus on.

"Fuck!" he yelled, his emotions on overload, the glass pipe he still held in his hand taking the brunt of his anger as he chucked it to the floor, shattering it into a million pieces.

"**Fuck**!" he yelled again, then kicked at the shards of glass nearest him, directing them under Ross' bed, before sprinting for the door. He had no idea what he would even say to her, but he knew he had to do something. If she left, they would never be ok again.

The front lobby doors flew open from the force of him pushing them, slamming into the walls on either side, but still he ran. Seeing her in the distance, he forced himself into a full board run, shouting her name as he frantically tried to catch up with her.

"Monica! Monica, wait!" He knew she heard him, when she downshifted her fast paced walk to a barely existent crawl.

"I'm sorry," he panted, gasping in air, fighting to catch his breath. "I'm **so** sorry! It's not **you** I'm angry with," he explained to her back, still struggling for air. "It's **me**. And a little bit Ross. But, mostly," he added, swallowing hard in an attempt to wet his dry throat, "It's the situation."

"I shouldn't have put you in that position," she offered meekly, finally turning to face him, "And I'm sorry I did."

"AahUgh! I **hate** this!" he exclaimed, pulling her into his arms, holding her as tightly to him as he could and still trying to get closer. "It shouldn't have to be like this! We shouldn't have to decide, between Ross, and whatever **this** could become!"

"Chandler," she whispered, pulling away, locking eyes with him when she did, "He doesn't have to know." The lost expression he gave in return prompted her to repeat herself. "Chandler, please, he doesn't have to know."

Nodding, he asked, "Is it worth the risk?"

"That's your decision to make," she answered. "I'm related to him. He'll have to forgive me, at some point. With **you**, depending on how strongly he feels about this, or against this… It could possibly end your friendship."

"I don't want that to happen," he sighed, his gaze dropping to the ground. "He's like a brother to me."

"Yeah, me, too," she quipped, smirking when he laughed.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he nodded indistinctly, his smile fading as he asked her, "Can we still be friends?"

He'd made his decision. A relationship with her wasn't worth the risk.

"Yes," she answered, then asked in return, "Can you forgive me, for the way I shamelessly threw myself at you?"

"Yes," he said with a short nod, "But only if you can forgive **me**, for the way I treated you earlier."

"I can," she told him sincerely, "And I **do**."

"Come back with me to the room?" he asked of her, almost pleadingly. "I want to show you something," he added, extending his hand for her to take, smiling uneasily until she took it.

Nodding, she asked, "What do you want to show me?"

"It's a surprise," he answered, entwining his fingers with hers, leading the way back to the dorm, her immediately falling in line beside him.

"Is it a **good** surprise?" she asked curiously, to which he laughed in response.

"Sense the tone, Mon," he quipped, then nodded in answer, adding, "**I** think it is."

"Animal, vegetable, or mineral?" she asked, initiating a game of twenty questions, smiling in the knowledge that she had her friend back, when he gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

"Writing assignment," he answered, stopping the game dead in its tracks.

"The short story?" she asked excitedly. "You finished it?"

"Yep!" he answered, showing similar enthusiasm. "Just finished, right before you showed up!"

"You're gonna be a famous author some day," she announced happily, "I just know it! Like mother, like son," she added, laughing when he groaned.

"Yeah, well, **my** stories have less throbbing penises in them," he deadpanned, smirking when she laughed again.

"And they're all the better for it," she assured him, smiling appreciatively when he opened one of the twin glass lobby doors, dropping her hand as he held it for her, then he chivalrously gestured for her to enter first.

Following her in, they were just about to the stairs, when a voice rang out from behind them, stopping their ascent.

"Mr. Bing!"

Spinning around, Chandler offered the man a cordial smile, speaking in a tone that reflected his expression as he greeted him. "Hey, Mr. Crane. How are you this fine evening?"

Sighing at the obviously fake pleasantries, the irritated man replied, "A bit better than our lobby doors, I'm guessing."

"Yeah, um, sorry about that," Chandler apologized, "I was, kinda in a hurry."

"Yes, well, be that as it may," the man returned staunchly, "Our lobby doors are made of glass, and we've already replaced them three times, this year alone. See to it that you don't make it a fourth," he added, to which Chandler nodded in acceptance of the stern advice.

"Yes, Sir," he replied respectfully, hiding a grin as the man rolled his eyes, waiting till he was turned away before bringing his fisted hand up to in front of his crotch, making a movement like he was masturbating to show his dislike of him. "Jerk off," he muttered, then took Monica by the hand and headed for and up the stairs.

The slight smile Monica wore dropped as she entered the room, her eyes darting to the various remnants of broken glass that speckled the floor.

"Chandler, what happened?" she asked, stepping carefully to the side as he followed her in and shut the door.

"I was pissed at myself, for how I treated you, so, I took it out on my pipe," he answered guiltily, sweeping pieces aside with his shoe, making a path towards his bed for her to take.

"But, you **loved** that pipe," she said sympathetically, sighing when he only shrugged back at her.

"I can buy a new one," he muttered, then gestured for her to take a seat while he gathered all the pages of his story together. "Here," he suggested, "**You** read, **I'll** clean."

"You sure you don't want me to help?" she asked, offering to, but he shook his head in answer.

"It was **my** temper tantrum," he stated remorsefully, "**I'll** clean it up."

Nodding, she dropped onto his bed, accepting the several ratty pages of notebook paper he handed her, her eyes shifting down onto the top one as she immediately began to read.

Since he didn't own a dustpan, Chandler swept the broken glass and unused weed, that had been in the bowl when he broke it, onto a sheet of heavy duty cardboard, then sifted carefully through the shards to save as much of his stash as possible. Dumping what he couldn't salvage, and what was left of his broken piece into the wastebasket beside his desk, he then moved to sit beside Monica on his bed, resisting the urge to hover over her as she read the final page of his story.

"Oh my God, Chandler," she whispered, bringing the final page to the back of the stack before handing it over to him, "That was **amazing**! Your best one yet!" she added, smiling when he beamed back at her with pride.

"I think so, too," he told her, "But I wanted **your** opinion," he added, "Since you always tell it like it is."

"Well, what it **is**," she laughed, "Is brilliant."

"I don't know if I'd go so far as to say **that**!" he returned modestly, setting the pages back on his desk before rejoining her on the bed, "But, it's good, right?"

"It's better than good, Chandler," she assured him. "You're allowed to think so!"

Shrugging, he admitted, "I kinda do," then laughed when she playfully nudged him with her shoulder.

"John's feelings for Cindy! The anticipation, of will they or won't they! The kissing in the rain! I just wish it was longer!" she added, rattling off aspects of the story she liked best, tucking her legs under herself as she shifted her position to better face him, excitedly preparing to discuss it all at length.

Shifting as well, sitting cross legged, he mirrored her stance and enthusiasm. "Did I make the stepfather evil enough?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah!" she answered, "I wanted to see him die in the **worst** way!"

Laughing, he said, "I think killing him off would affect my grade. I'm hoping for an 'A' this time!"

"It **deserves** an 'A'," she said in all honesty, adding, "I'd give it an 'A', if it were **my** decision."

Nodding gratefully, he then asked, "What about the part at the beach? With the sexual tension and everything?"

"I **loved** that part!" she exclaimed. "I kept thinking, this is it! This is where they're gonna kiss! And then the wave knocked her over and spoiled everything!"

"Do you think I should change it?" he asked worriedly, "So that they **do** kiss then?"

"No, no!" she answered adamantly, "The sexual tension is what drives the story! They **can't** kiss yet! It would make the end less spectacular!"

"Yeah, the end… When he finally kisses her? Was it romantic enough?" he asked, smiling uneasily as he awaited her answer.

"Oh, **God**, yes," she answered, almost breathlessly. "With his hand running through her hair… and then he's cradling her head… and how he's **so** nervous at first…"

"Yeah," he agreed, "I wanted to make it tender, instead of the 'gotta-have-you-now', kind of thing."

"Definitely," she said with a nod. "Works better that way… in **this** story," she added, smirking when his eyebrow shot up inquisitively. "What?" she asked, with feigned innocence, "There is **definitely** something to be said, for the whole, 'gotta-have-you-now' moments within a great love story. Why do you think your mom sells so many of **her** books?"

"Cause she has half naked men and women on the front covers, with their hair blowing in the nonexistent wind?" he quipped, grinning when she laughed.

"That probably helps," she conceded, grinning back at him, both of their expressions turning serious as they continued to hold the other's gaze. Somewhat uncomfortable over the intensity, she quickly looked away, muttering in a nervous, joking manner, in an attempt to break the tension, "Her stepfather kinda reminds me of Ross."

"Ross isn't **that** evil!" Chandler laughed, which prompted Monica to explain what she meant. The consequences of what it would imply never entered her mind.

"I didn't mean the evil thing," she told him. "I meant the butting into John and Cindy's business, thing."

"Oh. Yeah," he muttered awkwardly, dropping his feet to the floor, pushing off the bed to stand. Distancing himself from her seemed like the safest course of action, but the room was too tiny to go far. He settled on stepping up to the desk, reorganizing its contents, fidgeting as he pushed papers and textbooks to one corner or another with no sense of order or importance.

"Sorry," she apologized, throwing herself back onto the bed in frustration, "I didn't mean to do that. It, just, came out of my mouth, before I could think."

"I do that constantly," he quipped, but not even the hint of a smile graced her face in response. Sighing, he approached the bed, then whispered, "It's no big deal, Mon, really. I'm fine."

"No, it's not," she groaned. "I don't want things to be weird between us! And if I keep saying stupid things, it's always gonna be!"

"Not always," he said reassuringly, climbing into the bed to lie beside her. "It'll probably be, like, one of those things, that we'll eventually end up laughing about, ya'know?" Gathering her into his arms, pulling her to him, he added lightly, "We'll be all, remember that time, when we almost started making out in your dorm room, and then you broke your favorite hash pipe?"

Laughing, she whispered, "You always know just what to say."

"Always," he whispered back, kissing her hair before asking, "You wanna stay here tonight?"

"And listen to Ross' lecturing?" she scoffed. "No, thanks. Besides," she added, "Where would I even sleep?"

"**My** bed," he answered, to which she instantly tensed in response. "Ross is staying at Carol's tonight," he added, smirking to himself when he felt her relax. "I'll sleep in **his** bed, and **you** can sleep in **my** bed. K?"

"Well, I **do** like the idea of avoiding my mother tonight," she shared, "And it sure would piss her off, if I stayed out all night," she added, a slight smile inching onto her face as she imagined the fit her mother would throw. "Maybe, when I go home, I'll tell her I **did** sleep with Kip!" she laughed, "Just to see what her reaction is!"

"Ah, messin with the whack job," he mused appreciatively, with a joking lilt, "Well played, Geller. Well played."

"Thank you, thank you," she accepted, sitting up and playfully taking several half bows before falling back into his arms, casually mentioning several silent moments later, "I'm actually kinda tired. Being dumped on, three times in one day, tends to take a lot out of a gal."

"At least I apologized," he returned, somewhat defensively, though the edge wasn't noticeable within his tone.

"You did," she agreed with a slight nod.

"And, I'm trying to make up for it," he added, "By, ya'know, being here with you, and offering you my bed."

"Which I appreciate, believe me," she assured him.

"It's not a problem," he insisted in a dismissive manner, then asked, "So, do you want me to move over to Ross' bed **now**, or…?"

Shaking her head in answer, she quickly elaborated, in a breezy manner, "No point to that, really. We're both comfortable. You can stay… if you want to," she added hesitantly, biting her lower lip as she waited to see what his response would be.

"Well, I **am** comfortable," he returned in agreement, then, going for the joke, added, "Don't worry, I promise to be on my best behavior."

"Glad **one** of us can promise that," she muttered sarcastically, a tiny smile inching onto her face when he laughed, despite her frustration.

"Oh, I'm sure you'll be able to control yourself," he teased. "I mean, I know it's hard to--"

"It **is** hard to," she interrupted, sighing, the lack of humor in her tone causing Chandler to sigh as well.

"Maybe I **should** move then," he suggested, his hold on her loosening, like he was preparing to do just that.

"No, please," she begged him, "Don't leave me."

"I'm just gonna be over in Ross' bed," he explained, as if that was somehow unclear, confused by the slight sense of urgency in her voice.

"I know. I'm sorry," she apologized, calming herself, "It's just, I want you **here**. In **this** bed."

"Nothing can happen, Monica," he told her, answering to what was being implied.

"I know that, Chandler," she assured him, "And I'm not asking for anything to happen," she added. "I'm just, asking for you to hold me. That's not against Ross' precious rules," she asked bitterly, "Right?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly, "I never asked him."

"Oh, c'mon!" she shot back, clearly exasperated. "Where do we draw the line?" she asked, her tone edging anger. "How much say does he get to have, over how we can be with each other? Does he get to dictate, every aspect of what we can and can't do? He doesn't want us to be in a relationship, and you want to abide by that. Fine! I accept that! I'm not asking for the world, Chandler, I'm just asking for a **hug**! It's been a bad day," she sighed heavily, almost sadly, "And, I just know I'd feel better, if you could hold me right now. Is that really too much to ask?"

"No," he whispered, tightening his arms around her once again, "It's not. Of course I'll hold you," he added consolingly, planting a soft kiss in her hair as he did.

"Thank you," she returned with a grateful sigh, "And I'm sorry," she added. "It's not **you** I'm mad at."

"I know," he said in acceptance of her apology, "And I understand where you're coming from **completely**. Believe me, I do. Guess we both needed to throw temper tantrums tonight, just to get all that built up frustration out of our systems," he quipped, laughing, trying to lighten the mood.

It worked. She laughed, too, then added teasingly, "Yours was worse than mine."

"I'll concede to that," he said, partly in jest, but mostly in remorseful agreement, then asked, insecurely, a few silent moments later, "Do you really think my story deserves an 'A'?"

Nodding, she answered, "I'd bet money, that it gets one."

"Wagering over my academic advancement, hmmm?" he joked, then asked, "How much we talkin, here?"

Shrugging, she said, "I don't really have any money, so… five bucks?"

"Five bucks?" he laughed. "Geez, Mon, that's just pathetic!"

"Sorr-rry!" she shot back, in mock indignation, then laughed too.

"Besides, if you're **so** sure I'm gonna get an 'A'," he challenged her teasingly, "What do'ya got to lose?"

"Ok, fine! Cause I'm **so** sure you're gonna get an 'A'," she announced with confidence, "I'll bet ten thousand dollars!"

Laughing, he told her, "Let's not get crazy here! I was thinking more along the lines of, loser has to take the winner out to dinner. And I'm not talkin about McDonalds or whatever! I'm talkin, some place **nice**!"

"You're on!" she accepted, "And I know just the place, too! **Very** upscale! And I'm gonna order the most expensive thing on the menu, too!" she threatened jokingly.

"Sure," he quipped, "Drain my trust fund in one night!"

"You have a trust fund?" she asked, the surprise in her tone somewhat changing the mood of the conversation.

"I told you that," he reminded her, adding when she shook her head against his chest, "Oh, c'mon! You remember! You were over here, proofreading that essay I wrote about underwater basket weaving, and we got into that water balloon fight with the guys down the hall? I told you I had to go to the bank, to pull money, so I could buy more balloons when we ran out?"

"Well, yeah," she admitted, "I remember all that, but, I just thought you meant, like, a **normal** bank account! I didn't know you meant a trust fund!"

"Oh. Ok, sorry," he apologized with a laugh, "Guess I wasn't too clear then."

"S'ok," she accepted easily, then asked nosily, jokingly, and after a brief pause, "So, how much you got in that trust fund of yours?"

"Well, Mon, ya'know, I'd tell'ya, but, then I'd have to kill you."

Laughing at his joking threat, and deadpan delivery of it, she asked, "That much, huh?"

"Let's just say, half naked men and women with their hair blowing in the nonexistent wind, gracing the covers of every one of my mom's books, does more than just raise pulses. And Dad's all male gay burlesque show is doing pretty well, too!" he added, "Which means, more money for the son whose love they're trying to buy!"

"God, Chandler, I'm **so** sorry!" she whispered, appalled by the disclosure, even though it was shared jestingly.

"Oh, c'mon! Don't be sad!" he laughed. "I was joking! I mean, they **are** trying to buy my love, but, I didn't say it to make you sad! I said it to get a laugh out of you!"

"How can you joke about that?" she asked, confused. "That's **so** sad!"

"With **my** parents," he answered, still attempting to keep the mood light, "You have to pick and choose, what you get worked up over. Believe me," he added, "This is **far** from the saddest thing they've done."

"Guess **your** parents make **my** parents look like Ward and June Cleaver, then, huh?" she asked, taking his cue, trying to sound less troubled and more easygoing.

"Well, your **dad** may be like **Ward**, but your **mom** is **far** from **June**," he laughed.

"Yeah," she sighed in disappointed agreement, "She can be a little… intense."

"Intense?" he shot back, shaking his head at the understatement, "She's a **bitch**! Sorry," he apologized, only halfheartedly, "But she **is**! The way she kept glaring at you, and snipping at you, after you cut off my toe! I wanted to climb off the gurney and smack her!"

"I deserved her treatment of me **then**, though," she said with a hint of guilt. "I fucking **maimed** you!"

"Oh, please," he scoffed, dismissing the extreme of the word, "You hardly **maimed** me! What importance does a pinky toe serve, anyway? It's not like you hacked off my **hand**!" he laughed, bringing a smile to her face.

"Thanks," she whispered, "For, you know, forgiving me for that."

"No biggie," he muttered, then added, "It's not like you did it on purpose! You just had way too much shit in your hands!"

"Yeah," she returned with a sigh, the day of the incident playing out in her mind as they fell silent. If it wasn't for her feelings for him, if she hadn't been trying to flirt with him, the accident never would have happened. She never had been able to muster up the courage to tell him the full story. She hoped he wouldn't ask. It was just too embarrassing.

Hoping to move past the subject, subsequently minimizing the risk that he would question her about it, she asked, "So, hey, can I ask, when did you start smoking weed?"

"Shortly after my parents announced that they were getting a divorce," he answered nonchalantly.

Shocked, startling slightly, she asked, "But, weren't you, like, **nine**?" He nodded in response. "Oh my God! Chandler! You were **nine** when you started smoking weed?"

Shrugging, he muttered, "Better for you than cigarettes. I started smoking those **first**, but gave them up when I started smoking weed."

"You shouldn't have been smoking **anything** at **nine**!" she shot back, completely stunned, hurting for him in the absence of any outward sign that he felt it for himself. "You shoulda been playing with Star Wars figures! And playing little league baseball!"

"Oh, yeah, that's what you want to do," he laughed, "Give a baseball bat to the angry, confused nine year old!"

"Yeah, well," she laughed in return, "You would've looked cute in the little uniform, anyway."

"Right," he offered sarcastically, "So, I would've been a **cute** angry and confused nine year old, beating the shit out of people with a baseball bat!"

Seeing his attempt at humor for what it was, not allowing him to dodge the topic with the use of it, she asked him determinedly, "You were really that angry?"

"Why do you think I started smoking weed?" he asked in return, masking his pain with a lighthearted tone. "I needed to calm the hell down! Everything would set me off! And kids teasing me about my cross dressing father and my erotic novel writing mother sure didn't help with that!"

"So, you were like a bully?" she asked. "You would pick fights?"

"I didn't pick 'em," he answered, "But I sure as hell finished them! That's how I ended up in the boarding school. Guess Mom figured with a stricter structure, I would settle down. A classmate- an **older** classmate, introduced me to weed. Said I needed to chill. It worked. So, thus started my usage."

"You're not angry when you're **not** on it **now**, though," she pointed out carefully.

"Well, I grew up. Learned coping mechanisms. Thanks Dr. Roberts," he quipped, like he was addressing his childhood psychiatrist, then added, for her benefit, "Mom sent me to a shrink for years."

"So, why continue to smoke it? If you can deal **now** without it?" she asked.

Shrugging, he answered, almost indifferently, "I like it. I like the high. And, especially when I'm stressed, it feels good to be able to relax like that. Just… float, without concern."

Knowing enough not to attack his habit, she eased up. "Floating's good," she stated casually; she smirked when he laughed.

"Yeah," he agreed, "Floating is **very** good."

Deciding to change the subject, she shared with him, "Just so you know, I wasn't upset that Kip broke up with me, **because** he broke up with me."

"Then, why were you upset?" he asked curiously.

"He was just so **cruel** about it!" she answered. "Called me an ugly, silly little virgin."

He sighed in response. "Well, for starters, you're **not** ugly. And, silly? Hardly! And, as for you being a virgin… that's a **good** thing! You don't need to be sleeping with just **anybody**! Wait till it's right! Wait till you're with someone that you really care about! That really cares about **you**! Who will make it special. Who will hold you, and caress you, and do everything to you and for you that he should. Kip woulda gotten his, then rolled off and walked away. It shouldn't have to be that way," he added, then sighed again.

Her mind took his words and played out the fantasy, imagining it was **his** hands caressing her, holding her, touching her in ways that made her body scream to life. And then he would kiss her, and do everything to her that she had always wanted him to, and she would feel like the most beautiful woman alive, because it would be visible in his eyes, and apparent in the way he made love to her. She sighed unknowingly.

"You ok?" he asked, her lack of response and heavy sigh causing him to wonder if she was.

"Yeah," she answered, forcing her voice to normalcy, "It's, just, I don't think that's **ever** going to happen for me."

"What are you talking about?" he asked rhetorically, adding immediately, "Of course it is! It wasn't right with Kip, but that doesn't mean it won't ever be right with **someone**!"

"The only person I **would** consider doing it with, doesn't want me," she replied sadly, knowing he would know exactly what she meant, but not caring in that moment of the possible repercussions revisiting the subject would cause.

"Wanting and doing what's right, sometimes clash," he told her, keeping his wording vague on purpose. "I want to smoke weed all day and night, but then where would my life be?"

"That's **so** not the same thing, Chandler, and you know it," she sighed, and then he did, too.

"No, I guess it's not," he conceded, "But, you get the point. It's not about **wanting**, it's about the consequences of **having**."

Knowing he was uncomfortable, wanting to alleviate it, she said, "We should maybe just go to sleep now. I think that topic is only going to run in circles, till we're both exhausted."

Nodding in agreement, he then asked, "Want me to move to Ross' bed then?"

"You can if you want to," she answered, "But, no, I don't."

"Then I won't," he replied, kissing her hair, allowing himself to linger for a moment as he took in a deep breath. It did nothing to settle his nerves. "Night, then."

"Yep. Night."

**XXX**

--The sharp jabbing into his shoulder ripped Chandler from his sleep, his eyelids straining to lift, as if in protest of having to open at all, his vision blurry as he attempted to focus on the person responsible for disturbing his dreams. They were good dreams.

"What the hell is **this**?"

"Ssshhh," Chandler hissed, his gaze darting to an unconscious Monica in explanation for why he was requesting silence, then whispered, "Don't wake her, Man."

"Hallway," Ross demanded in a harsh whisper, then turned abruptly and headed for the open door.

Rolling his eyes, Chandler cautiously left Monica's side, being careful not to break her sleep, then joined an irritated Ross, closing the door all but a little.

"I repeat," Ross snipped quietly, "What the hell?"

"It's not what you think," Chandler insisted, keeping his tone even and respectful. "She was depressed, cause Kip broke up with her, and then your mom was giving her grief--"

"So, you figured you'd climb into bed with her, and take advantage of her?" Ross asked bitingly, interrupting him, his arms crossing over his chest as he glared back.

"Please," Chandler scoffed, "We're fully dressed!"

"You were last time, too!" Ross reminded.

"Dude, you need to chill, ok?" Chandler said with a sigh. "Seriously, nothing happened! Nothing will **ever** happen! I promised you, and I don't go back on my promises. She just needed a friend, is all," he added, staring back in a way that requested his understanding.

Sighing concededly, Ross asked, "Why did Kip break up with her?"

Reluctant to share the details, unsure if Monica wanted him to know, he told him, "Cause he's an asshole," then quickly changed the subject and asked, "Why aren't you at Carol's?"

"After the lecture, we went out to eat," he answered. "I'm just back here to grab my overnight bag. Didn't want to be dragging it around with me," he added, then shrugged.

"Makes sense," Chandler muttered, then shrugged as well. "So, then, where is she?" he asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets, trying to move into some kind of casual conversation.

"In the lobby," he answered, "Chatting with some friends she ran in to."

"K," Chandler replied, somewhat uneasily, and then his smile matched his tone as they only stared back at one another for several seconds.

"Do me a favor," Ross asked of him, finally breaking the awkward silence.

"Sure, Dude, what?"

"Sleep in my bed tonight," Ross answered, then immediately explained why he'd made the request. "It's, just, weird, seeing you two together… like that. I would feel better about things," he added, "If, you just, weren't sleeping in the same bed with her."

"Sure, Man. We weren't looking to fall asleep," he lied, "We were just chatting, and I guess we just… dozed off. But, yeah, I'll sleep in **your** bed tonight, Man, no problem."

"Thanks," Ross muttered, then gestured past him and towards the door as he said, "Guess I should grab my bag and get going then."

Nodding, Chandler waited for Ross to reenter the room, then followed him in, watching as he grabbed his bag from the closet and slung the strap to it over his shoulder. For appearance's sake, Chandler moved to climb into the bed Monica wasn't on as soon as Ross turned around, then whispered, "Have a good night," as he settled in, like he was hunkering down to go to sleep.

"Yeah, thanks," Ross whispered back, then smiled at Chandler in appreciation before heading for and out the door, shutting it softly as he left.

Waiting for several minutes, to be sure Ross was actually gone for good, Chandler then climbed out of bed, slowly, like he would get caught at committing the crime at any moment, then stepped towards the door. As soon as he reached it, he opened it with a sense of caution, then peeked stealthily out into the hall, looking to see if there was any sign of him coming back, like, to maybe grab something he had forgotten, or to check to see if he had actually gone to sleep in the bed his sister wasn't in.

Seeing no sign of him, he backed away and closed the door quietly, then rejoined Monica on his own bed, wrapping his arms around her as he settled in. It was several seconds after he had gotten comfortable, that she spoke up, letting him know when she did, that she wasn't sound asleep after all, and had heard everything that had been said.

"Thanks for coming back," she whispered, smirking when she felt him startle slightly.

"Yeah," he whispered back, pulling her tighter to him as he stated simply, "He doesn't have to know."

Her smile grew wider before it faded, and then they both fell comfortably back to sleep.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

This chapter is almost three times the size of the first. Just mentioning. Got some definite ideas for where to take this story, so, this is far from the last chapter, but I have no idea if they will all be **this** size, or closer to the size of the first chapter, or any other kind of size in between. We'll just take it chapter by chapter I guess, huh?

Still working on the sequel to 'Mengliad'… I have the general plot device in outline, and some key elements of the story mapped out, but the chapter by chapter outline has been a slight struggle. It's not exactly a writer's block, though, so, don't worry. Just, might take a few weeks, to get it all worked out.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed the second installment on **this** story! Let me know if you did, by leaving a review, k?

And, for anyone who is interested, my entire 'A Baby Story' episode is now posted on YouTube, broken into four parts. This is not a slideshow tribute kind of thing, this is the **actual** episode. If you want to see it, just do a search on YouTube, for the username: janaonwheels

For those who **don't** know, my youngest son was born on this show (which usually airs on The Learning Channel) back in 1999. They don't air our episode anymore, cause they've done so many seasons now, they usually only show and rerun new or fairly recent eppies.

MTLBYAKY


	3. Chapter 3

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

Chapter Three

**XXX**

--"…Now, if you're going to use flour instead of cornstarch, be sure to make a roux out of it first, before you thicken your sauce. This way, you will ensure that you have the proper consistency, and not a broth with lumps of dough in it."

The entire class laughed, and the teacher beamed for a moment, before continuing.

"For the roux, start out with--"

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Mr. Buchanan, but, I have a note for Monica Geller."

All eyes in the room went to the short plump woman making the announcement, and then to Monica, who fidgeted slightly from the unwanted attention. Sheepishly raising her hand, she stared back in embarrassment and confusion as she watched the stout office aide approach. When the small, folded piece of paper was thrust towards her, she gingerly lifted it from the woman's possession, locking eyes with the messenger for only a moment, before dropping her gaze to what she held in her hand. Her name was scribbled on the top of it, in Chandler's writing.

Nervous over what she'd find once it was opened, she unfolded it slowly, taking in a calming breath before finally focusing on the words.

'Monica,

Come to my dorm room right after class. Don't stop home to change. Don't even stop to go to the bathroom. You can pee when you get here. I have a surprise for you. And, since you can't sense the tone in written form… yes, it's a GOOD surprise.

Chandler'

An undetectable smile inched onto her face unknowingly, as she continued to gaze down at the note, rereading the words several times, feeling an odd sense of connection to him in doing so.

"Ms. Geller?"

The sound of her teacher's voice brought her mind out of the clouds, reminding her of where she was, and she quickly refolded the note and slipped it into her apron pocket as she muttered, "Sorry, Sir."

Nodding, he asked, "Is everything alright?"

"Yes," she told him with a slight reassuring smile, adding as she patted her apron pocket, "I'll tend to it later."

Nodding again, Mr. Buchanan picked up where he left off, and all eyes were finally off her and back on him when he did.

**XXX**

--Somehow knowing it was her, Chandler opened the door with a grin plastered on his face, bringing a smile to hers as well, as soon as they both came into view of each other.

Waggling the note, Monica announced with a slight laugh, "You had my classmates thinking someone died! People were asking if I was alright, all day long!"

"Sorry," he apologized without remorse, his smile never faltering, then, gesturing for her to enter, exclaimed, "I just couldn't wait to show you!"

Shutting the door behind her as she stepped inside, she told him, "People usually only get notes, when it's a life or death emergency. I was actually scared to open the thing!"

"Sorry," he apologized again, but with sincerity, "I didn't mean to worry you. I was just, too excited."

Forgiving him with a smile, she asked, "How did you have the time to get over there? I thought you had classes all day!"

"I blew them off after the second one," he answered, then pointed at his bed, requesting of her, "Sit. And close your eyes."

"There's something every woman dreams of hearing," she quipped sarcastically, but complied anyway. At least with the sitting part.

Laughing, he shot back playfully, "Just, close your eyes, woman! And no peeking!"

Rolling them first, she then closed her eyes, sighing in mock exasperation as she heard him cross the room, then the distinct sound of rustling papers, before his footsteps indicated he had returned to just in front of her.

"Open your eyes," he ordered in a kind, soft tone, and when she did, she found herself staring back at a bright red 'A' on a piece of paper she recognized immediately, mostly by the title at the top of it.

"Oh my God!" she gasped, snatching the neatly typed pages from his hands, ignoring his quip about how many papercuts he had just received by her doing so. "You **did** get an 'A'!" she near squealed, then leapt from the bed and threw her arms around him. "I **told** you it deserved an 'A'!" she reminded him excitedly, then pulled away as she gazed back at the perfect score, prominently displayed just under his name.

"You did," he returned with a wide, proud smile. "I think it's the first one I've gotten, since I started here."

"I'd suggest putting it up on the fridge," she teased, "But, you don't have a fridge in here!"

"It would only be stocked with beer and old pizza if we did," he laughed, then added with a touch of seriousness, "I **am** gonna save it, though! If I ever **do** become a famous writer, it'll be neat to have it. Kinda like a reminder of when and where it all started."

"You'll be one," she assured him, finally tearing her eyes from the paper and locking them with his as she added with a joking lilt, "I was right about the 'A', wasn't I?"

Nodding, he said, "Which means you won the bet."

Confused for a moment, she asked, "Bet? What bet?"

Scoffing playfully, he answered, "The one about the loser buying dinner!"

"Oh! Right!" she laughed, remembering, but her smile faded slightly as she told him, "You don't have to. We were just messing around, ya'know?"

"Hey! I don't welsh on my bets!" he returned, as if offended, but his grin told otherwise.

"Shoulda held out for higher stakes then, huh?" she quipped, then asked, "Ok, so, then, when? Where?"

"Winner's choice," he answered, plucking his story from her hands and placing it neatly in his desk drawer, pulling out a brown bag when he did.

"Well, I know **where**," she announced, dropping back onto his bed, "But the **when** will kinda need to be a mutual decision. What's that?" she immediately asked, pointing at the bag he held firmly in his hands.

"Got me a present," he answered, grinning as he opened it and peeked inside, reinitiating eye contact with her a second later.

Cocking an eyebrow curiously, she asked, "What kind of present?"

"The kind that is a must, for the celebration we're about to have," he answered, then reached in and produced his brand new glass pipe, handing it to her after flaunting it proudly for only a brief moment.

"Wow. Pretty colors." Courteously, she looked it over, showing interest in it only because of his obvious excitement, then asked as she handed it back to him, "We celebrating **now**?"

"Hell, yeah!" he laughed. "I've just been waiting for you to get here! I wanted us to christen it together!"

Nodding in simple approval, she mentioned casually, as he retrieved his stash of weed, "Seems bigger, than your old pipe."

"Little bit," he replied, taking a seat at his desk, immediately going to work on packing the bowl. "I almost got a bong!" he laughed, "But, those are harder to hide."

Scowling, she asked, "What's a bong?" to which he laughed again.

"Usually," he answered, "It's a big, almost vase-like piece, that holds water, and the smoke filters through it when you hit it. Loads of fun," he added, then spun around in his chair and asked, "Want greens?"

Shaking her head, she answered, "Nah. It's **your** new toy. And **your** 'A'! **You** should hit it first."

Fishing the lighter out of his pocket, he gave her a nod and a smile, then quickly sparked the bowl and hit it. Holding the smoke in his lungs, he held up a finger to her, requesting she give him a moment, then when he finally exhaled, he handed the pipe over to her and warned her, "Rip it light. It hits a little harsher than the other one."

She followed his suggestion, but in her cautiousness, she didn't really get anything off the hit.

"You can hit it a **little** harder," he laughed, then gestured for her to go again, which she did.

Successful the second time, she passed the pipe and lighter back to him, then asked after exhaling, "So, when for dinner? When are you free?"

"Need to know the 'where' first," he answered, then took his turn before handing it over again.

"There's this great place, my teacher, Mr. Buchanan, is always talking about. Javu's," she said, then took a fairly hard hit, sputtering slightly to keep the smoke in her lungs, allowing him to pluck the piece from her hands as he moved to sit beside her on the bed.

"You ok?" he asked, rubbing her back, waiting patiently for her to exhale, and then answer.

"Fine," she laughed, which then turned into a coughing fit, prompting Chandler to go from rubbing to patting her back as she worked through it.

"Need something to drink?" he asked, smirking when she nodded, brushing his hand a few more times across her back in sympathy before moving to grab his backpack off the floor. He rummaged for a moment, then pulled out a can of soda, popping it open as he returned to her. "Sip slowly," he instructed, then handed it down to her, taking a seat beside her and his turn as she did.

"So, is the 'where' ok?" she asked, setting the soda on the floor, accepting the pipe from him as she added, "Might be expensive, I'm not really sure."

"Don't worry about the cost," he told her, then suggested, "Hit it lightly, and then immediately hit it lightly again. See if that works for you."

It did, and she nodded to convey that before passing it back over. "Does your door have a lock?" she asked, glancing towards it to see if she could spot one.

"Yeah, why?" he asked, then took his turn.

Shrugging, she muttered, "What if someone smells this stuff and comes barging in or something?"

"Everyone here does it, Mon," he laughed. "Believe me, no one cares."

"Better safe than sorry," she said with another shrug, smiling to herself when he sighed and moved towards the door.

He turned the bolt, locking it, then spun around and asked, "Feel better now?"

Nodding, she asked as he rejoined her, "Is that, ya'know, bowl thing bigger? Like, does it hold more weed or something?"

"Yeah," he answered, grinning as he handed the pipe over to her. "Feelin it yet?"

Scoffing, answering only in that way, she took her turn, then informed on the exhale, "I'm done."

"Good, cause, I think the bowl is, too," he replied, taking a hit to confirm that before tapping the pipe on the knee of his pants and brushing the ash from it. "Lie back," he said as he headed for his desk, putting his paraphernalia away, "Enjoy the ride."

"You come enjoy it with me," she ordered, plopping back on the bed and scooting to make room for him.

"Yep! Just, turning the air purifier on," he told her, adding with a laugh, and as he did, "Least it's good for **something**, besides keeping me up nights!"

"At least I had a wall separating me from it, when he was still back home," she laughed, watching as he climbed in beside her, snuggling up to him as soon as he was settled.

Tucking his arm under and around her, he pulled her tightly to him, sighing contentedly as his eyes drifted closed. An 'A', higher than a kite, and Monica in his arms... life just couldn't get any better.

"I've been thinking."

Quirking an eye open at the sound of her voice, he asked, "About?"

"About us," she admitted tentatively.

Squeezing his eyes shut tight, fearful of the answer, he asked, "What about us?"

"I keep wondering, what woulda happened, if Ross hadn't come in, that day we were… ya'know, messing around."

The hesitation in her tone, and the halting way she spoke, told him exactly where the newly started conversation was going.

"Thinking about that, probably isn't such a good idea," he told her, his heart picking up pace as her fingers started to play against his chest.

"You never think about it?" she asked, trying to sound innocently casual.

"I try not to," he answered honestly, his nervousness showing through in his tone.

"But you **have** thought about it." It wasn't exactly a question, but he answered it anyway.

"Yes," he whispered.

When she pulled back to look down on him, his eyes slowly opened and locked with hers. "You're not gonna get mad at me again, are you?" she asked; he only shook his head in answer. "I think about it constantly," she admitted, lying back against him. "I daydream about it," she added, her fingers moving almost imperceptibly lower from their position on his chest. "I go to sleep at night, thinking about it. Sometimes, if I'm lucky," she whispered, "I dream about it."

"Monica, please," he begged her breathlessly, struggling against responding to her touch, his eyes slamming shut in concentration.

"You're not doing anything wrong, Chandler," she assured him, inching her hand lower still. "You're just lying here."

"If you keep doing that," he whispered shakily, "I'm going to want to do something **very** wrong."

Brushing her hand past his hip and onto his upper thigh, she asked, "Were you close that day, Chandler? Were you close to cumming?"

"Oh, God," he moaned, "Monica, please, don't do this." His protests were weak at best, and he made no move to stop her. He didn't want to stop her, and the reasons for why he should started to fade and distort.

"I'm just congratulating you on your 'A'," she whispered, her hand drifting dangerously close to his groin. "It was a well deserved 'A'," she added.

"This is only going to make it harder for us," he breathed, almost panting. "If we do this, it'll be too hard to get back to where we are."

"I'm willing to chance it," she told him, then pressed her hand firmly against him.

"Monica, God, please, stop," he moaned, in both pain and pleasure, his body naturally responding to the rhythmic movement she inflicted upon him. It was amazing. It was perfect. It was wrong. "Monica, no!" he barked, grabbing her hand and throwing it off of him, flying off the bed so quickly it set him off balance. When he regained his footing, he ran his hand through his hair in manic frustration, then finally locked eyes with her as he snapped, "We can't! We **can't**!"

"Don't be mad at me," she whimpered, tears pooling in her eyes that dropped near instantly onto her cheeks.

"I'm not," he told her, somewhat harshly, and when he realized the tone he'd used, he repeated himself in a softer one. "I'm not. Monica, I'm not mad," he insisted, then dropped to his knees beside the bed and placed his hands over hers. "I swear I'm not, but, we can't."

"Chandler, please," she cried, "He doesn't have to know. It doesn't even have to be sex," she added. "It can just be hands. I want your hands on me **so** bad. I want to put my hands on **you**."

Dropping his forehead to rest on the bed between his arms, he whispered, "God, Monica, please. You're killing me."

"Just this once," she pleaded. "Just our hands. Fully dressed."

A million emotions fought for release, his brain unable to latch on to any of them for longer than a second. "Monica… Fuck! Monica, please, listen to me. We **can't**. I want to. Ok? I admit it! I want to, but, we **can't**! I **won't** risk his friendship, and more importantly, I won't risk **yours**!"

"How would you be risking mine?" she asked, confused and curious.

"Play the scenario out," he asked of her, lifting his head, his eyes searching hers helplessly. "We do this, and it changes everything. We can't walk away from it. It's too strong. We have to keep going back for more. It evolves into a relationship. The very thing he doesn't want us to be in. Doing the very things he doesn't want us to be doing. He hates me. He never wants to see me again. He's **mad** at **you**. Our relationship starts to feel the strain. It slowly forces a rift between us. We break up. We can't stand being near each other. It's all just, too painful. We never see each other again."

"It doesn't have to be like that," she whispered, but he shook his head in response.

"You think I haven't thought about?" he asked, then scoffed. "I've run a thousand scenarios through my head, and not a one of them has a happy ending! I won't risk it! I don't want to lose Ross as a friend, and I **can't** lose you! It would **kill** me, if I couldn't have you in my life! Please, try to understand," he pleaded. "It's not because I don't want to, it's because I **can't**!"

Nodding solemnly, she whispered, "Ok," then extracted her hands from under his and pushed herself into a sitting position.

"I'm not rejecting you, Mon," he assured her, "I'm rejecting the situation. I **have** to reject the situation! The **last** thing I want to do is hurt you," he insisted, "And I know I am, and, God, I am so, **so** sorry, but, it has to be this way. For the sake of our friendship, it **has** to be this way. I'll be there for you, in every other way you need me to be, except **this** way. Please tell me you understand," he asked of her, waiting the agonizing seconds it took for her to answer in fear of what she would say next.

"I understand," she whispered, her eyes still diverted from his, her focus firmly planted on the muted green sheets she sat upon.

"Are you mad at me?" he asked, and she shook her head slowly, just barely, in response.

"No," she answered, "I'm disappointed, and frustrated, but I'm not mad."

"I am, too," he sighed. "**Believe** me, I am! But, it has to be this way."

Finally meeting his gaze, she nodded, then smiled slight, letting him know she was ok, or at least that she would be, then asked, somewhat off subject, "Does weed make you horny?"

Smirking back at her, grateful for the break in tension, he answered, "Weed can affect different people differently. Why?"

"Seems like every time I smoke it, I try to jump you," she answered, then laughed when he did.

"Well, tell'ya what," he suggested, moving back towards his desk, "Let's smoke till we're **so** fucking wasted, all we want to do is sleep!"

"I'm up for that," she announced, agreeing to his plan, then scooted to the edge of the bed and dangled her legs off it as she watched him pack the bowl.

As soon as he was done, he joined her, then immediately passed her the pipe. "You get greens this time. And remember," he added, "Two or three little hits, instead of one big one.

Nodding, she sparked the bowl, ready to numb herself into forgetting the events that had just transpired, desperate to leave the humiliation behind her.

**XXX**

--The pounding racket jolted Chandler into consciousness, and he knew, even before he heard the voice, who was responsible for the harsh shove into alertness.

"Chandler! You in there? Why the hell is the door locked?"

Pushing up on his arms, he gazed down at a still sleeping Monica, amazed by her ability to block out the excessive noise being created. "Your brother's here," he finally whispered, but she only shrugged and snuggled deeper into the pillow she was laying on, completely unwilling to join him in being awake. "K," he mumbled with a shrug, then groaned as he rolled himself to the edge of the bed, nearly falling face first onto the floor as he fought to stand.

"Chandler?"

His name was said like a question, and he realized by that, that Ross didn't know for sure if he was even in the room.

"Coming," Chandler called out, making his way to the door, working the lock and yanking it open before immediately turning about and heading for his desk. Mentally preparing himself for the barrage of questions he knew were coming, he faced his friend head on.

"Why was the door locked?" Ross asked, closing it behind him, his eyes then landing on Monica a second later, as he stepped further into the room. "Why is Mon here? What's going on?"

The second question was more of a challenge, prompting Chandler to sigh heavily, then drop his still high and tired body into the chair across the room from the miffed man who had initiated it.

"She came by to see me, and we smoked a bowl, in celebration of the 'A' I got for that writing assignment, and then she fell asleep."

"Why did she come to see you?" Ross asked, his tone only slightly less accusatory.

"Cause I asked her to," Chandler answered, staring back evenly, revealing nothing in voice or stance.

"Why?"

"Dude," Chandler sighed, turning in his chair, facing the desk and away from Ross, "You said we could be friends. You said you had no problem with us being friends. So, what's with the third degree?"

"You guys seem a little… **too** friendly," Ross answered, the not-so-subtle implication throwing down the gauntlet.

His irritation rising, Chandler asked, "So, it's ok for me and you to be friends, but not for me and Monica? Is that what you're saying?"

"You spend more time with **her**, than I spend with **Carol**!" Ross shot back, "And **she's** my **girlfriend**!"

"Yeah," Chandler returned with agitated sarcasm, spinning back around and adopting a confrontational stance, "And **we**," he gestured between himself and Ross, "Spend more time together than **either** of us do with **anyone** else! Guess that must mean that **we're** secret lovers!"

Ignoring the gay crack, Ross asked, "Why was the door locked? What were you guys doing in here?"

"Monica **asked** me to lock the door!" he informed him defensively. "And we weren't doing **anything**!"

"Why did she ask you to?" Ross asked as he crossed his arms huffily, almost defying him to deny what he suspected.

"We were smoking a bowl, and she was all paranoid that some random person would smell it and barge in!"

"And then what happened?" Ross snipped.

That was the last straw. Chandler had had enough. "Oh my God! Dude, you have **got** to **chill**! Apparently, Monica isn't the **only** paranoid Geller!" he added, throwing his hands up in the air in angry frustration before heading for his closet. "I'm going for a walk!" he announced, grabbing his jacket off its hanger, pushing only one arm through a sleeve as he headed for the door. "Tell Monica I'll catch up with her later!"

Slamming the door as he left startled Monica, not that she was sleeping, but the movement called Ross' attention, who just assumed the loud crack of door meeting jamb was responsible for waking her.

"Sorry about that," Ross apologized to her, as she slowly pushed herself to sitting and blinked up at him. "**I** was trying to be quiet, but when Chandler gets in one of his moods, he doesn't so much care who he disturbs."

Monica wanted to roll her eyes, but forced herself not to, then asked, like she didn't know the answer, "What were you guys fighting about?"

"Roommate shit," he lied as he stepped over to his bed and sat heavily upon it, then asked in return, like it was an innocent question he was just curious to get the answer to, "Were you two napping together or something?"

It was Monica's turn to lie, and she did so convincingly, almost to the point of believing her own words. "No. **I** was napping, **he** was working on a new story, for his writing class."

Glancing at the desk, Ross brought to her attention, "There's no papers, or anything to indicate that's what he was doing."

"He doesn't start writing, till he gets the plot and characters worked out in his head first. It's his process," she added, then asked, throwing the ball back in his court, "Haven't you noticed? You live with him." She was a master at verbal volleyball, especially when it came to her brother, and she had her sights set on winning.

"Well, I **have** seen him sitting there, all, spaced out," he admitted, "But, I just thought it was cause he was high."

Laughing, pushing up off the bed to stand, she quipped, "Sometimes it is, I'm sure. The man sure does like his weed," she added, then stepped over to right in front of him and kissed the top of his head. "You worry too much," she accused him in a lighthearted sisterly way, ruffling his hair. "He loves you like a brother. He's told me that a bunch of times. Whatever you two were fighting about, fix it," she advised, then headed for the door, turning back around when she reached it to serve up the final play of guilt. "You won't find a better friend, ever in your life. Don't fuck it up."

Nodding, Ross muttered, "I'll fix it."

"Good," she praised him, then threw him a smile before walking out the door, it dropping as soon as she shut it and was obscured from his view. Sighing heavily, she muttered to herself, "Bad day for Monica," then moved towards the exit with purpose.

If she picked the right direction, and walked fast enough, she might just be able to catch up with him. She had a feeling she knew where he was heading.

**X**

--A pleased-with-herself smile inched onto her face as she saw him standing up at the counter, completely unaware that she had even entered the establishment, since his attention was elsewhere.

Stepping up behind him stealthily, she got as close as she dared with alerting him to her presence, then announced, just slightly above a whisper, "I thought I might find you here."

Jumping at the sound of her voice, Chandler spun around as he swore in gibberish, then a grin exploded across his face when he realized who was responsible for scaring him half to death.

"Hey, Mon! What are you doing here?" he asked, but before she could answer, he turned back to the pale-haired coffee pusher and asked, "Actually, can I get two cappuccinos, please? Thanks, Gunther," he added politely, then happily gave Monica his full attention as he gestured that they should take a seat on the ratty orange couch in the center of the room. It was the most popular spot in the place, but it was uncharacteristically unoccupied.

"I'm here to see **you**," she answered his previous question, smirking when his smile grew wider. "I take it by that expression, that you're glad I'm here," she ventured, her heart picking up pace slightly when he nodded and took her hand in both of his.

"Very," he whispered, his smile fading as he told her, "I had the worst fight with Ross. But, you probably heard that, huh?"

"I heard it," she admitted, her smile dropping as well. "I think dead people in China heard it," she added teasingly, to which he laughed in response, bringing the smile back to her face.

"He just has no idea, the sacrifices I'm making for him," he sighed, gaining seriousness. "And it's not like I can tell him! Cause he'd totally freak out on me! It's like, forget about acting on it, cause that's obviously, totally out of the question! It's like, now, I'm not even allowed to **feel** it! My feelings are my own private business! And as long as I'm not acting on them, that **should** be enough for him! But, it's like it's **not**! It's like he doesn't even want me to hang with you anymore! And, I'm sorry, but that's just **not** ok with me!"

He stopped his ranting, almost abruptly, then stared back at her for a long moment before muttering, "Kinda weird, talking to you about **this**."

"I'm your friend, Chandler," she said with a reassuring smile. "You can talk to me about anything."

"Chandler, right?"

Chandler looked up and to the right, acknowledging the man who asked the question with a nod.

"Here's your coffees," he said, setting the two mugs down on the table in front of them, then informed him, "And you have a phone call."

Scowling back at him, he asked, "How in the hell do **I** have a phone call?"

Gunther just shrugged, then muttered, "How many Chandlers could there be? I could tell him no one answered to that name," he offered, "If you want."

As appealing as that was, since he was more interested in continuing his conversation with Monica than taking some phone call, curiosity got the better of him. "Nah, Man, I'll take it." When Gunther nodded and walked away, Chandler looked over at Monica and shrugged, then pushed off the couch and headed for the counter, her directly behind him.

Hesitating for a moment, Chandler slowly put the phone to his ear, then asked into it with an inquisitive tone, "Hello?"

"Oh, good! You **are** there!"

'Ross', Chandler mouthed inaudibly to Monica, then said to her brother, "Yeah, Man, you tracked me down. What's up?"

"This probably coulda waited till you got back, but, with as mad as you were, I wasn't sure if you were planning to disappear for the night."

"I wasn't," Chandler returned evenly, not quite sure where the conversation was going, holding his verdict until more was said.

"Look, I just wanted to tell you, that, I'm sorry for wigging out on you like that. If you say nothing was going on, then I believe you. I trust you, Man, is what I'm trying to say. You've never given me reason not to, so, it's the least I can do, ya'know?"

Covering the mouthpiece of the phone, Chandler sighed heavily, then whispered to Monica, "Guilt," before responding to what Ross had said. "Dude, thanks. I- I really appreciate that. And, you don't have to worry," he added. "Monica and I really **are** just friends." When he saw the slight smile drop from Monica's face, and the sad expression take over, he took her hand, then smiled over at her when she looked up and caught his gaze.

"Yeah, ok. Cool. So, are we good?"

"Yeah, Ross, we're cool," Chandler answered, then laughed shortly as he told him, "But, Dude, I really think we're gonna need to finish this conversation up later. Gunther is glaring at me."

"The creepy blond-headed dude?"

"Yeah, Man," Chandler laughed again. "I'm tying up a business line with this, and he don't look too happy about it."

"Right. K, so, when you comin back?"

"Couple hours, give or take," Chandler answered, then asked, "Why?"

"Would you mind if I snuck a bit of your stash, Man?"

"No, Dude, that's cool," Chandler answered, in complete endorsement of him getting high and calming himself. "I'll just pick up more on my way back."

Monica gently extracted her hand from Chandler's when she realized the call was wrapping up, then headed for the couch, beating him there by only seconds, as he followed almost immediately behind her.

"Sounds like you guys made up," she said as he joined her, and he nodded in answer as he reached for his coffee cup.

"Weird that he would try to track me down, instead of just waiting for me to get back," he mused, sipping his hot drink carefully before setting it back down.

"Well, I mighta planted the seed," she admitted, bringing her cup to her lips and blowing on it before chancing a taste.

"How do you mean?" he asked curiously, watching her, noting that she seemed to be stalling for time as she played around with actually taking a drink.

"I told him," she eventually answered, "That he would never find as good a friend as you, and that he needed to **fix**, whatever it was you guys fought about."

"Yeah, well, I'm not **that** good a friend," he muttered, reaching for his cup once again, taking a large gulp of it. He ignored the slight burn to his tongue and the roof of his mouth. Physical pain was a welcome distraction from the emotional hell he was experiencing.

"You're too hard on yourself," she said with a disagreeing shake of her head, then added ashamedly, "**I'm** the one that's the bad friend here."

Laughing, though he knew she was serious, he asked, "How'd you get **there**?"

"I've put you in a horrible position twice now," she answered, not even cracking the tiniest hint of a smile. "Good friends don't do that."

"**Now** who's being too hard on themselves?" he quipped, sighing when she still didn't laugh or smile. "Mon, please, let's just… forget it happened, ok? Move on and past it. I hate seeing you look so sad," he added in a near whisper, placing a single finger under her chin, lifting to gain her attention. He was hoping to lock eyes with her, and maybe even get her to smile. He loved her smile.

Holding his gaze for several long seconds, she whispered back, "I can forget it if you can."

Catching the hidden subtext of her statement, he sighed, "We have to, Monica. We need to be strong, and do the right thing."

Before she started to cry, which she was already on the verge of doing, she nodded slight, then asked, "So, when did you want to do dinner? You're still planning to pay your bet, right?" she teased, finally allowing herself to smile when he laughed.

"I told you, Mon," he teased back, "I don't welsh on my bets! Tomorrow night?" he suggested, laughing again as she looked to the ceiling, as if considering her availability.

Laughing when he nudged her playfully, she answered, "I think I'm free."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed sarcastically, then asked with a joking lilt, "How fancy is this place? Suit and tie, nice button up shirt and slacks, or jeans and my Van Halen T-shirt?"

"Suit and tie," she mock scolded him, then asked, "Do you **own** a suit and tie?"

"Of course," he answered. "You never know when you might have to attend the funeral of some idiot frat guy who takes twenty consecutive shots of Bacardi one-fifty-one and keels over from alcohol poisoning."

"So, you're going, dressed like death?" she asked, with an arched eyebrow and a smirk.

"I'll leave the hooded robe and sickle at home, don't worry," he deadpanned, grinning widely when she laughed in response.

"Yes," she played along, speaking as if completely serious, "No collecting souls at dinner, please."

"Aww, c'mon!" he whined, "Two more and I'm eligible to win a free trip to Jamaica!"

"Got a quota to meet, do'ya?" she asked, sipping her coffee casually, as if they were having the most normal conversation in the world.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," he answered with mock indignation. "My boss is breathing down my neck!"

"Your boss being…?" she asked, staring back at him with a neutral expression on her face, continuing to play her part in the game they were amusing themselves with.

"The Grim Reaper," he answered emotionlessly. The game had become a challenge, to see who would break down and laugh, effectively ending it first.

"I hear he's a hard man to work for," she replied with nary a flinch or twitch.

"He's not so much a 'he' as an 'it'," he told her. "Bones in a black robe, really."

"Must be a scary day at the laundromat, when it comes time to wash it, then, huh? Or does he- **it**, have spares?"

"It has spares," he answered, "But it has been known to streak. People running, screaming, flailing. Pretty chaotic scene," he added, straight faced, watching her closely for any signs of a smile.

Determined to win, she forced the inward smirk from outwardly appearing, then asked plainly, "It gets its jollies from freaking people out then, I take it?"

"Figuratively speaking," he answered, "Since it's neither male nor female."

"So, no chance of finding a Reaper spouse and having little Reapers babies," she muttered, tipping her cup to her lips to take a drink.

Suspecting she was using the cup to hide a smile, he reached over and lowered it from her face, staring back intently. His expression caused her to break the façade, and the moment she started laughing, he did, too.

"I win," he announced, but she shook her head emphatically in protest.

"You did not! I wasn't laughing cause of the **game**! I was laughing cause of your **face**!"

"Yes, thank you," he muttered sarcastically, pretending to be hurt, like she'd meant it as an insult, but began laughing again when she promptly but lightly smacked him.

"You cheated! You were making a weird face at me!" she insisted, back to defending the fact the she didn't lose their strange game.

"Again, thank you," he returned with a barely noticeable smirk and mock offense.

"Shut up!" she laughed, asking as it subsided, "So, what time is death escorting me to dinner?"

"Eight ok?" he answered, asking her opinion, and she smiled as she nodded. "Ross is going to Carol's for the weekend," he added casually, taking a drink of his lukewarm coffee. "Wanna hang out after?"

Nodding again, trying not to show too much excitement over the invite, she muttered, "Sure, I guess."

His heartwrenching speech, given just hours before, offering the worst case, or, in his mind, the most logical scenario for how things would play out for them, was a turning point for her. She was done humiliating herself. Done throwing herself at the man she thought about, and dreamt about, every minute, of every hour, of every day. She promised herself that, as she listened to the soft sounds of him sleeping, after smoking the second bowl of weed that caused him to drift off easily in the first place. But if ever he decided that a relationship with her was worth the risk, and showed even the slightest inkling of wanting to cross the forbidden line, from friends to lovers, she knew without question, that she would leap at the opportunity, consequences be damned.

The next move, was his.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

Ok, this chapter is smaller than chapter two, but bigger than chapter one. And the next chapter, is **way** bigger than any of them. Told you the chapters were gonna vary in size, LOL. Sorry about that.

I'm kinda writing this story ass-backwards. I have **no** outline, just tons of random ideas jotted down, and then I have a document, where I just keep writing snippets of scenes for later use, though I have no idea where they're gonna go yet! I also have a large chunk of the last chapter written! Never written a story like this before, so, here's hoping it doesn't suck cause of it!

On a sadder note… today would have been my 19th wedding anniversary, had my husband not left me. Pretty much rock-bottom depressed right now. Luckily, I was able to get chapter 4 written, before it got too bad. Course, feeling like this helps with the writing of the angst. Lots of angst in the next chapter. Be forewarned.

Ok, so, like I said, it's a bad day for me. If you could throw me a review, it would help cheer me up, and I would really appreciate that.

Thanks, and MTLBYAKY


	4. Chapter 4

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana~

**Chapter Four**

**XXX**

--Chandler had reworked the tie three times, and he still wasn't happy with it.

"Fuck, Man, this tie is like, defective or something!"

"Geez, Dude, chill," Ross muttered, his attention still on the book he was reading, "It's just dinner with Monica! Forget the tie!"

"It's a tie required kind of place, Dude," Chandler replied, shooting down the suggestion as he continued to struggle with the Windsor knot, asking seconds later, "You know how to do these?"

Sighing, Ross marked his place, shut his book forcefully, though not at all angrily, then pushed off his bed. "Hand it over," he ordered, gesturing with a wave of his hand. "I can only do it if it's **on** me."

Impatiently, Chandler yanked the warped knot out of his tie, whipped it off his neck, and then flung it at Ross. "Whoever Windsor is, needs to die."

"Pretty sure he's already dead," Ross laughed as he slipped the tie around his neck, immediately going to work on creating the perfect knot.

"Good!" Chandler shot back, laughing as well, his gaze fixed onto Ross' fingers in an attempt to learn the skill for future use. "How'd you learn to do that?"

Scoffing, Ross replied, "I learned to do this in the third grade, Man! How do you **not** know how to?"

"All my school uniform ties were clip-ons," Chandler answered with a shrug, then added, almost under his breath, and somewhat jokingly, "They were probably afraid I'd strangle people with the real ones."

Ross just shrugged indistinctly, then ducked out of the perfectly tied tie and handed it over to Chandler. "What's the name of this place?" he asked, sounding somewhat casual in the questioning, but there was a slight edge to his tone that Chandler picked up on.

"Javu's," he answered easily, continuing to work his tie under the collar and the knot up to his neck. "Why?"

"Never heard of it," Ross answered, stepping up and fixing a section of his collar that wasn't laying right. "Where is it?"

Shrugging, as if it was no big deal, though he was pretty sure Ross was about to disagree with that, Chandler dropped onto his bed, snagged his dress shoes off the floor, then slipped his foot into the first one as he muttered, "Manhattan."

"Manhattan?" Ross asked, just shy of shocked. "That's **far**!"

Scoffing, Chandler replied, "It's not like it's on the moon, Dude. It's no big deal," he added, then pushed his other foot into his second shoe as soon as he finished tying the first.

Calming slightly, Ross then asked, "How are you even getting there? The subway?"

"Um, no," Chandler returned with a short laugh, "Being held up at gunpoint might ruin the mood of the evening."

"Cab?" Ross asked curiously, but Chandler just shook his head in answer, then sighed as he locked eyes with him. "Then, how?"

It was about to get ugly, Chandler just had a feeling. "Limo."

"Limo?" Ross nearly screeched, "Why?"

"Dude, don't do this," Chandler asked of him, sighing again as he pushed off the bed and onto his feet. "We're **just** friends! She's been a huge help to me, with my writing, and a big supporter of it! She won the bet! I'm just trying to show my gratitude, is all," he added, his tone almost pleading with Ross to understand and calm down.

There was only a slight ease in the tension. Ross nodded, like he was planning to drop his accusations, but then contradicted the action by asking in a challenging manner, "How late are you gonna be tonight?"

Refusing to take the bait, Chandler responded to the not-so-innocent question with a neutral answer. "They had to squeeze us in, so, we may have to wait a bit for a table."

"And then you're coming straight back, right?" It wasn't a question, so much as an order, but Chandler didn't even flinch as it was posed.

"Dude, is this trust?" Chandler's tone was the absolute definition of calm. Getting defensive and engaging in a heated argument was **not** on the agenda for the evening.

Remorse took the place of skepticism. "I guess it's not. Sorry," Ross apologized, then cracked a tiny, strained smile as he muttered, "Have a good time tonight, Man."

"Yeah, well," Chandler laughed, "This is more about Monica than me. I'm just along for the ride," he added, then laughed again.

Finally relaxing, Ross laughed too, then asked, "What was the bet for again?"

"She said my mediocre story was gonna get an 'A'," he answered, then stepped up to his desk and grabbed his wallet, adding with a joking lilt, "Who knew?"

"You sure have taken a liking to that writing course of yours," Ross mentioned, somewhat casually, smirking as he asked, "Did'ja finally decide on a major?"

"Yeah, ya'know, I think I have," Chandler answered, his mirrored smirk turning into a slight grin. "Monica sure thinks I have what it takes, to, you know, be an author, but, that aside, I think it's kinda cool. **I** get to decide, what the characters are like, what they do, how things happen, ya'know? Definitely better than reading," he added with a laugh, "Where you don't get any say at all, in what the hell happens!"

"That's true, I guess," Ross agreed, laughing as well, asking seconds later, "Can I read it? The 'A' grade story you wrote?"

Before he could respond, the light rapping at the door called their attentions away and to it, both glancing in that direction as Chandler muttered, "Sure, Dude. Bottom drawer, under the weed. Just, put it back when you're finished," he added, then stepped over to answer it, almost nervously, knowing Monica was just on the other side.

The moment she came into view, Chandler's heart lurched in his chest, his gasp and wide-eyed expression bringing a knowing smirk to her face.

"Wow," he whispered, "You look…" Suddenly remembering Ross was in the room with them, he trailed off, almost abruptly. Struggling to find an adjective that would be both complimentary to her and neutral enough to appease her brother, he finally decided on, "Nice."

"You, too," she returned with an appreciative nod, adding jokingly, "Not at all like death."

Laughing, he quipped, "Yeah, well, the robe's at the cleaners, and the sickle is out for repairs. See'ya, Man," he called over his shoulder to Ross, who only hummed in acknowledgement as he started hunting for the story at the bottom of Chandler's desk drawer.

Stepping into the hall, closing the door first, Chandler whispered, "Insanely nice. Like, how-the-hell-am-I-supposed-to-keep-my-hands-off-you-tonight, nice."

Grinning slyly, she whispered back, "Just the reaction I was hoping for."

"You look amazing in black," he choked out, after clearing his throat, his eyes drifting away from hers and down her body. "Brings out the color of your eyes, and contrasts against your pale skin and sexy freckles."

Blushing, noting everywhere his gaze landed and lingered, she replied, trying to make it sound like a joke, "Was pretty much just going for slimming."

His eyes locked with hers again, his hand slowly reaching out to finger an inch of the dress at her hip as he whispered huskily, "It's **so** much more than that."

Time stood still, lost in each other, nonverbal communication saying more than simple words ever could.

"_So, if not for Ross, you would--?"_

"_Don't ask it, Monica, cause I can't answer it."_

"_Can't or won't?"_

"_Can't. Neither answer will give you what you want, anyway."_

The memory of that conversation jolted Chandler back into reality, and away from his impure thoughts.

"We, should, um, get going," he stuttered, looking away guiltily and to the floor. "They were able to squeeze us in, but, if we're late, they might not seat us at all."

If not for Ross, he **would**.

"I can't believe you got us in on such short notice," she stated casually, taking his hand in hers, leading him down the hall and hopefully away from the uncomfortableness she knew he was feeling. "Mr. Buchanan said the waiting list is, like, two months long."

"They had a cancelation," he replied with a shrug, grateful for the change in mood she was initiating. "I just happened to call at just the right time."

Nodding, she then asked, "So, how are we getting there? Cab?"

He shook his head, but offered nothing else in answer.

"Well, it's not like we could walk it!" she laughed, attempting to narrow down the possibilities.

They crossed the lobby in silence, a smirk playing on his lips the only sign he was up to something, and when she caught it as she glanced in his direction, she smirked as well.

"You're not going to tell me, are you?" she asked playfully, laughing when he shook his head again.

"It's a surprise," he told her, adding as a grin inched onto his face, "Sense the tone."

Once out the lobby doors, they headed straight for it, and Monica gasped when she realized they were.

"I walked right by it, but didn't even think!" she exclaimed, then squeezed his hand tighter as she picked up pace towards it. "I've never ridden in a limo before! Well, except for when my grandfather died, but that's not the same," she added, shrugging off the sadder comment and returning to a happier mood near instantly.

"Not so much," he quipped, then greeted the driver of the elegant vehicle with an upnod.

"Sir, Ma'am, how are you this evening?" the driver returned cordially as he quickly reached for the handle of the door and opened it for them.

"Good, Man, thanks," Chandler replied, then gestured for Monica to enter first. Waiting till she did, he then whispered to the driver, "Take the scenic route," as he pressed several bills into his hand through a handshake.

"Absolutely, Sir," the driver said with a knowing lilt and a nod, then stood dutifully until Chandler slid in, before shutting the door carefully and rounding the car to take his seat behind the wheel.

"Does he know where we're going?" Monica asked, mostly curious, to which Chandler nodded in reply.

"He knows," he whispered, then reached over and into the little mini fridge, retrieving a bottle and two chilled glasses.

"Champagne?" she asked, surprised, smiling when he just simply grinned widely. "You're spoiling me," she laughed, "Not that I'm complaining!" she added, "But, this wasn't part of the bet."

"The bet was vague," he told her, pulling the already popped cork from the bottle, "And you deserve it."

"What did I do to deserve it?" she asked, whispering 'thank you' when he handed her the first glass he'd poured.

"For just being **you**," he answered sweetly, setting the bottle down by his feet and holding his glass up in a toast, "And for all your support with my writing and stuff," he added, then clinked his glass to hers and gestured with it for her to drink.

"I think champagne tastes better in the back of a limo," she laughed, after taking a sip.

"I think it helps that it's a two hundred dollar bottle of the stuff," he quipped, laughing as well.

"Oh my God!" she gasped, in shock, her smile dropping. "Chandler! How the hell much money were you planning on spending tonight?"

Downing the rest of his drink in a long gulp, he set his glass aside, down next to the bottle, then took her hand as he answered. "Don't worry about that. It's **my** money," he added, slipping his arm around her and pulling her to his side, "I can spend it on you, if I want to."

"You **can**," she agreed, snuggling into him, "But, I'm surprised you'd want to."

"There's no one else I would rather," he whispered, then settled his cheek against the top of her head and sighed.

The promise she had made to herself was straining to be broken, but the fear of yet another rejection prevented her from acting on it. If he would only give some clear cut sign, if he would only put his hands on her in such a way, that told her exactly what he wanted, and was willing to do, she would give herself to him right then and there, without second guesses or regrets. But the almost innocently affectionate way he held her wasn't enough. She needed more.

"Touch me, Chandler, please," she whispered, shaking from nerves and adrenalin, gripping the glass in her hand so tightly, it was a miracle it didn't break.

"You know I can't do that," he whispered back, his arms tightening around her, offering her comfort and forcing himself not to comply with the same action.

"We're **so** close, Chandler," she said with a heavy sigh, "**So** close to, just, letting it happen."

"We can't let it happen, Monica," he insisted. "We have to get past this. We have to find a way to be around each other, without wanting."

"I will **always** want you, Chandler," she told him, shakily running her hand up his thigh, "No amount of rejection will change that."

He placed his hand on top of hers to stop her ascent, but didn't remove it from his leg. "Monica, please," he whispered, "My friendship with Ross is already starting to show strain, because of all this. I don't want to lose him as a friend. We **have** to find a way to get past this."

"There's nothing I can do or say, to change your mind?" she asked hopefully, almost bordering on begging.

"No," he answered definitively. "I'm sorry, but no."

Pushing out of his arms, she tipped her glass to her lips and took a healthy drink, then lowered it as she nodded solemnly. "K. I get it. Sorry."

"I will always want you, too," he admitted, though he debated the intelligence of doing so, "But, there's just, way too much at stake here. I could lose everything I've ever given a damn about," he added, "And I'm just not willing to risk it."

Avoiding eye contact, she nodded again, then announced brightly, completely and purposefully changing the subject and mood, "My teacher told me, it wouldn't surprise him, if one day, **I** was the chef at Javu's! I took it as a compliment."

"I think it was meant as one," he laughed, reaching for the bottle of champagne and his glass. "I think you just might be teacher's pet," he added as he poured himself another glass, smirking when she scoffed in response to his comment.

"Well, if I **am**, I earned it!" she shot back proudly, with a smirk, then tipped her glass to her lips again when he did the same with his.

"No doubt," he stated, somewhat seriously, but with the hint of a smile, then proceeded to down half his drink in one gulp.

"Did I tell you my soufflé earned an 'A'?" she asked excitedly. "I was the only one to get one, too!" she added, almost smugly, breaking out into a grin when he laughed.

"All the more reason to celebrate, then," he announced, reaching for her hand and threading his fingers through hers. "Javu's will be lucky to have you," he added supportively, holding his glass up, encouraging her to do the same, which she did. "To our two 'A's," he toasted, "And to our futures! Yours, as a brilliant chef, and mine, as a writer."

"A **brilliant** writer," she added, then clinked her glass to his and immediately took a sip.

"Hopefully. Someday," he said modestly, scoffing softly and shaking his head before tossing back the rest of his champagne.

"Hopefully someday, my **ass**!" she snapped teasingly. "You're brilliant **now**!" she added, "You just don't know it yet!"

"One 'A' hardly makes me brilliant," he laughed, extracting his hand from hers and snatching up the bottle to pour himself another glass. "You, on the other hand," he added as he topped himself off, "**Are**."

"How would **you** know?" she asked with playful indignation, "I've never cooked for you!"

"That's not true," he told her, then reminded her, "You made me mac-n-cheese, the Thanksgiving before the toe severing incident."

"Oh, please," she scoffed, "You're basing my culinary skills on **that**? That was hardly a masterpiece!"

"Close enough," he laughed. "If you can make a simple dish of mac-n-cheese **that** good," he added, "You **must** be brilliant! Besides," he concluded, "You're a straight 'A' student, so, I'm obviously not the only person who thinks so."

Laughing, she shook her head, then muttered, "You always know just what to say."

"Always," he whispered back, smirking as he took her hand again.

"That's the sign of a good writer, ya'know," she told him, to which he shrugged in response.

"I suppose. Some days, though," he shared, "The words seem harder to find."

"In your writing?" she asked, and he nodded.

"And in life," he answered, leaning into her, their shoulders touching. "Sometimes," he added, "I feel like I have a million things I need to say, and no words to say them with."

"Can you give me an example?" she asked, curious to what he meant, wondering if it had anything to do with her, or their situation.

"If I could do **that**," he laughed, avoiding the question, "There wouldn't be a problem!"

When he downed the last of his drink, and reached for the bottle again, she placed her hand on his to stop him. "That was your third glass," she reminded him. "Maybe you should slow down."

"Maybe," he half heartedly agreed, "But, maybe I don't want to. Maybe I **want** to be a little numb right now."

"Why?" she asked simply, and he scoffed in answer.

"Numb makes shit less painful," he muttered, but instead of picking up the bottle, he set his glass down beside it.

"Numbing yourself on alcohol isn't the only thing, that can make shit less painful." The implication was clear.

"I know," he whispered, "But that will only bring on a different kind of pain. And problems," he added, sighing as he looked away and out the window.

Setting her glass down first, by her feet, she shifted to semi-face him, then placed her hand on his knee. "I can take the pain away, Chandler, if you'd just let me. And I **know** you can take mine away. It doesn't have to be like this," she told him, almost whispering. "Together, we can soothe the ache."

He squeezed his eyes shut tight and clenched his jaw, trying desperately to hold onto his willpower. It was a losing battle.

"Fuck it," he muttered, then turned in his seat, reached out to cradle the back of her head, and crashed his lips against hers.

Breaking the kiss for just a moment, she whispered against his lips, "I'm not wearing any underwear," then returned to kissing him frantically as she took his hand and set it high on her thigh, in encouragement for him to verify that physically.

His brain was screaming at him not to, but he inched forward anyway, slipping his hand under the hem of her dress, heading for the expected destination. She parted her legs for him, giving him permission, then moaned into his mouth when he reached it.

Terror shot through him, and he pulled his hand abruptly away from her, as if he had just been burned, then broke the kiss just as hastily before darting away from her, to the farthest edge of the seat that he could.

"Fuck! Shit!" he cursed, berating himself, panting heavily from the adrenalin coursing through him.

"It's ok, Chandler," she whispered, startling when he snapped back at her.

"No it's not! Fuck! What the hell is the matter with me!?"

"Chandler," she sighed, "We **both** want this. Why are you fighting it?"

"You **know** why," he answered, then dropped his face into his hands.

"I know you think something catastrophic is going to happen," she said as she inched towards him, "But, I just don't see it that way."

"How do **you** see it?" he asked, looking up from his hands to glance over at her.

"I think he might be bent out of shape for a while," she answered, knowing he knew who she was talking about, "But, eventually, I think he'll get over it."

"I can't take the chance," he said with a sigh, then shifted his eyes to the floor, but her next suggestion brought them back up to hers.

"Ask him."

"What?" he asked, surprised by the statement.

"Ask him, Chandler," she repeated herself. "Ask him, if he would be ok with it, if we dated."

"What if he says no?" he challenged her in a soft tone. "What if he gets pissed? What if he wants to end the friendship, just cause I asked? And then he would **know** my feelings, instead of just wondering! And, I'm sorry, but my feelings are my own private business!"

"They are," she agreed, "But, it's worth a shot. Isn't it?" she asked timidly, requesting reassurances.

"If I say no," he asked, "Does that make me an asshole?"

"A little bit," she laughed, and then he did too. "No, it doesn't, if that's how you truly feel."

"I **have** to feel that way, Mon," he insisted. "Just asking him, especially after he's made his feelings about all this perfectly clear, could do just as much damage, as it could if we just dated in the first place."

"He might surprise you," she suggested, and he scoffed in response.

"He's a pretty predictable guy, Monica," he countered. "He's **not** going to say yes, and he's **going** to get pissed, and you know it."

"All I know," she sighed, "Is that when you touch me, I feel alive, in ways I can't even describe."

"God, Monica," he breathed, "You have **no** idea, how hard it is for me to say no to you, when you say stuff like that."

"Then," she asked of him, inching her hand hesitantly onto his leg, "Don't say no."

"I **have** to," he insisted, then grabbed her hand and placed it gently in her lap. "Please, stop torturing me."

"You think this isn't torture for **me**?" she asked, softly but with frustration. "You keep, sending me mixed signals, Chandler. Sometimes, it seems like, maybe you're willing to forget about Ross' stupid issues, and maybe try with me, but every time I try to initiate something, you push me away."

"I'm not trying to," he whispered. "I'm not trying to send you mixed signals, or give you false hope. I'm just… weak."

"If **this** is weakness, then you're the strongest weak man I know!" It wasn't meant as a joke, but Chandler laughed, obviously taking it as one, so she smiled in response, then laughed too as she scooted back to her side of the seat.

"Sounds like a carnival freakshow exhibit!" he quipped, then joined her on her side of the car. "Done with the champagne?" he asked, and she nodded.

First downing what she hadn't finished, he put both their glasses and the bottle back in the mini fridge, then sat back beside her, slipping his arm around her and gathering her to his side.

"Friends hold each other, right?" he asked, after several moments of silence, and she smiled as she nodded.

"Friends do," she answered, then closed her eyes and snuggled in deeper. If they couldn't be lovers, being close to him in that way, was the next best thing. It would have to do.

The sound of the tinted glass being lowered, that separated driver from passengers, startled them both, their eyes then quickly popping open to see what was happening.

"Sir? Ma'am?" the driver called out, after only an inch of space had been created between partition and ceiling. "We're almost there."

"Thanks," Chandler called back, then smirked over at Monica as he pushed the button to raise the glass back up again.

"You just **know** he thinks we're back here having sex," Monica laughed, and then Chandler did too.

"Let him think it," Chandler replied, then pulled her to him once again as he added, "He doesn't know Ross."

"Lucky him," she muttered sarcastically, to which they both started laughing, bringing the mood of the evening back to where they both wanted it.

**XXX**

--It was the most elegant restaurant Monica had ever set foot in, and she gasped as she tightened her grip on Chandler's hand in excitement.

"Oh my God, Chandler," she whispered, "This place is so beautiful!"

With a pleased smile, he nodded slight in agreement, then dropped her hand as he approached the maître d'.

"Good evening, Sir," the man greeted staunchly, "Name?"

"Good evening to you as well," Chandler returned, with just the hint of the same type of British accent the man behind the counter sported. "I believe I spoke with you on the phone a few hours ago. Chandler Bing, party of two? You assured me you could squeeze us in?" he added, then pulled his hand out of his pocket and extended it.

The maître d' smiled his best kiss-ass smile as they shook hands, and when Chandler pulled his away, the man snuck his into his jacket pocket. "Yes, Sir. Just give us five minutes, Sir."

"That's not a problem," Chandler replied, smiling back, then threaded his fingers through Monica's and led her over to the few chairs that were off to the side, for people to use while waiting for their table to be ready.

"Did you just **buy** our way in here?" she asked in a whisper, smiling when he grinned.

"My parents are famous for it," he told her, then shrugged as he added, "I've seen it done a thousand times, but this is my first time doing it. Felt good," he laughed softly, gesturing for her to take a seat, following her into the one beside it. "Guess they taught me something useful after all," he quipped.

"This place looks expensive," she mentioned worriedly. "And, after the limo, and the champagne, and the buy-in--"

"I told you not to worry about the cost, and I meant it," he interrupted her, smiling over at her as he gave her hand a gentle squeeze. "I got it covered, ok?" he assured her, then laughed when she nodded like she had just been asked a question by a great and powerful inquisitor. "Relax," he whispered, leaning in towards her, "This is supposed to be fun! Act like you own the place! Cause, someday, you might," he added, which brought a slight smile to her face.

"Mr. Bing, Sir," the man from before announced formally as he approached, "Your table is ready."

Nodding, Chandler stood, then helped Monica to as well, before following him into the diningroom and to their seats. He held out Monica's chair, gentlemanly, then sat across from her as the man handed each of them a menu, and started rattling off specials.

"Could I see the wine list, please?" Chandler asked, in that same fake almost British accent he had used before, which brought a smirk to Monica's face that he caught, but fought not to react to.

"Um," the man asked hesitantly, "Could I see your ID first, please?"

"Yeah," Chandler answered simply, then pulled his wallet from his back pocket, slid his ID from it, and handed it over.

The man studied it for a moment, then returned it to Chandler as he asked, "And, the lady's?"

"She left her purse at home," Chandler replied coolly and easily, "But, she's twenty-one, and I'm the one paying, anyway, so, no need to worry."

His unflappable, take-charge attitude was sexy, and it made her feel almost proud, or like someone of importance, just being with him.

"Very good, Sir," the man returned with a nod, then spun around stiffly, on the balls of his feet, and walked away.

"This **so** isn't your first time at a fancy restaurant," she laughed, to which he smirked in response as he shook his head.

"Before my parents split, eating at places like this was a common occurrence," he explained, then added, "After they split, too, I just, wasn't with them when they'd go."

She wanted to offer him some kind of supportive words or sympathy, but when he smiled and shook his head, then reached for his menu, she thought better of it.

"Hmmm," he hummed, then lowered his menu and whispered over to her, "If you say **one** thing about the prices, I'm gonna thump you."

Smirking, she nodded, then curiously lifted her menu and opened it. Gasping, she quickly turned the sound into a cough, and then she cleared her throat, knowing without looking over and past the velvet and parchment, that he was laughing silently at her.

"The veal looks good," she mentioned casually, trying her best to ignore the prices beside each item listed, forcing her focus onto the descriptions instead.

"I think red wine goes best with veal," he replied, then tapped the back of her menu to get her attention. When she lowered it, he asked, "Do you like red wine?"

Shrugging, she whispered, "I have no idea. I've never had it."

"Your wine list, Sir."

Nodding, Chandler took the list from the maître d' after closing his menu, then opened it and began to scan it.

"Will we be starting off with any appetizers today?" the man asked, to which Chandler shook his head.

"No, thank you," he said politely, "But, we know what we want. We'll both have the veal, and for the wine…" He trailed off as he continued to look over the list, then announced like he had all the knowledge of such things in the world, "Your best bottle of Pinot Noir."

The man obviously approved of the selection. "Very good, Sir," he almost praised him, then collected the menus and the wine list before marching primly away from the table.

"You did that just a little too well," she accused him playfully. "You sure don't **act** like this is your first time, flying solo at a fancy restaurant."

"I didn't say this was my first time flying solo," he replied with a smirk, "I said I'd never bought my way **in** to a fancy restaurant before."

"Well, you do it all very well," she said with a proud smile. "Like you've been doing it all your life."

"Since I was a fetus," he quipped, then reached across the table to take her hands in both of his. "I have another surprise for you," he whispered, "But it's back in my room."

"Is Ross still going to Carol's?" she asked; he shrugged, then shook his head.

"She cancelled on him," he answered, laughing when she rolled her eyes. "If he gets too annoying, we'll just go down to the rec room or something, k?"

"K," she answered, then smiled warmly at him when he began to caress the back of her hands with his thumbs. She had no idea what the surprise was, but whatever it was, it couldn't be what she really wanted. Not with Ross being there.

**XXX**

--Happy and sated, Monica sat snuggled up against Chandler, the slight rocking of the limo almost lulling her to sleep. The night had started out a little shaky, but it was ending perfectly.

"I think this is my favorite night of all time," she whispered, smiling when he made a little humming sound, like he agreed and felt the same way. "I was impressed with you tonight," she added, the dreamy quality to her tone catching his attention.

"Impressed?" he asked, requesting elaboration with the one word question.

"The way you were tonight, at dinner," she explained. "There's nothing sexier, than a man who can handle himself at a fancy restaurant."

"Sexy? Right," he scoffed. "Hardly! And, there's nothing to it! You just act as stuck up as they do, and talk like you know what the hell you're doing!"

"Trust me," she told him, "It's **very** sexy! And it's **so** not as simple as you make it sound," she added, smirking when he laughed.

"It's not as **complicated** as **you** make it sound," he shot back playfully, then kissed her hair as he whispered, "I wasn't trying to impress you."

"I know," she assured him, then added, "You don't **have to** try. You, just… **do**."

His heart fluttered in response to her compliments, and in an effort to get it to stop and slow its pace, he cleared his throat, then changed the subject. "I'm glad you had a good time tonight."

"I did," she whispered, then added several long seconds later, "You must have spent a fortune tonight."

"Don't make me thump you," he quipped, grinning when she laughed, planting another soft kiss in her hair as he added, only somewhat seriously, but still lightheartedly, "It barely put a dent in my savings. Trust me, it's fine."

Nodding, she suggested, "We should do that again sometime. I mean, it doesn't have to be Javu's or anything--"

"You **are** trying to drain my trust fund!" he teased, interrupting her, but when he heard her scoff, he quickly added, "I know you're not. And, you're right. We **should** do that again sometime. I like spoiling you," he whispered as he tightened his arms around her. "You deserve it."

"I'm not so sure I deserve it," she countered playfully, "But I'll take it. I like being spoiled by you," she sighed contentedly, then added with a joking lilt, "You do it very well."

"Then we're a match made in Heaven," he quipped, but when he felt her tense, he immediately wished he hadn't said it. "Tell'ya what," he offered brightly, trying to ease her back into her happier mood, "How 'bout, once every two weeks, we set aside time and go out to dinner? Just the two of us. Sound good?"

"Then I really **would** drain your trust fund," she laughed, and he smiled at the sound.

"It has ongoing deposits, Monica," he told her. "My parents have it arranged… as long as I'm in college, monthly deposits are made. There's no way dinner every couple weeks is gonna drain it, trust me."

Surprised, she pushed out of his arms, just slightly, then asked as she stared back at him, "You're rich or something, aren't you?"

"Or something," he muttered jokingly, then laughed as he brought her back against him. "My **parents** are rich," he explained, "And I can't live off them forever. And, even if I **could**, I wouldn't want to. I have more drive for my life than that," he added seriously, "And being a leech off my neurotic parents is far from where I want to be."

Hearing the hurt and frustration in his tone, she decided to steer the topic back to where it was. "Dinner every two weeks sounds like a great plan. As long as you don't spend the kind of money you spent tonight, every single time. I would feel guilty," she added, "And that would kind of defeat the purpose of going out at all."

Smirking, he asked, "The purpose being?"

"To have a good time!" she answered, as if that should have been obvious. "If I'm feeling guilty," she added, "Then I wouldn't be able to have a good time, thus defeating the purpose."

"Ok," he both sighed and laughed, one after the other, "How 'bout, we alternate? One time, we go someplace nice, the other, we go to, like, McDonalds or something?"

"I think my conscience could handle that," she teased, then asked, "Starting two weeks from tonight?"

"Yep! The Golden Arches! In two weeks! Be there, or be square!"

"Ok, I'm sorry," she laughed, "But just you saying that, makes you square!"

"No, no," he countered defensively, "I said, be **there**, or be square! I'm only square if I don't show up!"

"Stand me up?" she asked with mock indignation. "You better **not**!"

"Never," he promised her. "I would **never** stand you up."

"Smart man!" she shot back playfully, startling seconds later when the driver called out and addressed them.

"Sir? Ma'am? We're almost there. Did you still want me to wait for you?"

"Yeah," Chandler called back, "Is that a problem?"

"No, Sir," the driver replied, "I just need to mark it in my log."

"K. Great. Thanks," Chandler returned politely, then raised the glass again to obscure himself and Monica from his view. "Excited about your surprise?" he asked, smiling when she nodded. "Good. I really hope you like it."

"I'm sure I will," she said sincerely, then added in a barely audible whisper, "If it's from **you**, there's no way I won't."

He wasn't sure if he was meant to hear it, but he did. He smiled.

**XXX**

--The moment they walked through the door, Ross was on his feet, his stance confrontational, with anger in his eyes as he glared back at them.

"Want to explain this?" he asked irately, shaking a stack of papers at them in explanation of the word 'this'.

Realizing what was in Ross' hand, Chandler rolled his eyes and sighed, but Monica took a few seconds of only staring back, before she caught on.

"Your story?" she whispered towards Chandler, who only nodded simply in answer.

"This is about you guys, isn't it?" Ross asked accusingly. "And I'm the wicked stepfather!" he added, as if it were fact.

"Dude, the story isn't about **anyone**!" Chandler shot back, exasperated. "It's **fictional**!"

"What were you doing, snooping through his stuff, anyway?" Monica challenged her brother with a firm scolding tone. "You had no business even reading it!"

"I told him he could," Chandler explained, instinctively taking a step back when she spun around abruptly to face him.

Her wide eyes and pointed stare communicated her feelings on the matter, but then she mouthed the words 'are you nuts?', and it left no room for doubt. When he just shrugged in response, she rolled her eyes and turned back around towards her brother.

"That right there should tell you something, Ross!" she announced harshly. "If the story **was** about **us**, with you playing the part of an evil dictator of a stepfather, then why in the hell would Chandler go and **show** it to you?!"

Ross' anger dissipated immediately, but he continued the fight. "Maybe he didn't think I would put two and two together," he suggested, his stare leaving Monica and landing on Chandler.

"I consider you a pretty smart man, Ross," Chandler told him, calmly, but with a slightly disapproving tone. "Though, right now," he added, "You're sure not acting the part."

"You want to completely destroy your friendship with this man?" Monica asked, glaring at her brother as she gestured towards Chandler, "Then, just, keep it up! Cause you're doing a great job! Or!" she added, "You could try pulling your head out of your ass and giving him the benefit of the doubt, before you go making wild accusations!"

The hangdog expression on Ross' face as he dropped his gaze to the floor almost made Chandler feel guilty. Almost.

Stepping up to him, Chandler snatched the papers from Ross' hand, marched over to his desk, placed them inside the drawer, then pulled out his pipe and bag of weed. "I'm taking Monica home," he snipped, then he thrust the items he held at Ross as he added, "Get high and calm the hell down, **before** I return, or I'm sleeping in the rec room tonight!"

As Ross slowly took the items, Monica told him, "You owe him an apology!"

Before Ross could speak up, Chandler snipped, "I don't want him to apologize! I want him to be my fucking friend! Friends don't do this to each other, Man!" After throwing his hands up in the air, in anger and frustration, he added as he moved towards the closet, "Friends trust each other! And if you don't trust me, then you're obviously not a friend!" Slamming his closet door hard, he then returned to Monica's side with a small box in his hand. "I got a million places I could go, Dude! You just say the word, and I'm outta here!"

"I don't want you to move out," Ross insisted, "I just don't want you to date my sister!"

"Oh, for the love of… **Fuck**! Dude! For the **last fucking time**, I'm not dating Monica! I'm her fucking friend! Something **we** used to be, before you got all paranoid and weird!"

"Ross," Monica said to him, bringing the tension in the room down with her composure, "You're taking this big brother thing too far. I'm a grown woman, and can make my own decisions. It's not for you to say, who I can and can't date."

"So, you **are** dating then," Ross timidly accused, startling, as did Monica, when Chandler snapped back at him in response.

"No! We're not! What the hell is it going to take, for you to understand that?"

"Going out to fancy restaurants is something people who are dating do," Ross pointed out, his gaze finally off the floor and back to shifting between Chandler and his sister.

"Yeah, so?!" Chandler shot back. "People who date, also go out for coffee! And talk on the phone! Am I not allowed to do any of those things with Monica, because people who date happen to do it, too? And, hell, if we're gonna go **there**, doesn't that mean that **we're** fucking dating?! I do all those things with you, too! Where's the line, Ross?" he asked, the rhetorical question being posed in a demanding way. "How much say do you get to have, over what Monica and I are allowed to do together?"

Monica recognized her own words in what he had just said, but didn't even flinch when she did.

"I'm not sleeping with her, Man," Chandler insisted, only slightly less severe than before, "And isn't that the big issue here? I'm not sleeping with her, and I'm not **gonna** sleep with her, but you gotta back off on the rest of it, Man. Give us space, let us be friends, and stop with all the paranoid accusations!"

Reaching out to touch his arm, Monica whispered, "C'mon, Chandler, let's just go, ok?" Nodding, he turned his back on Ross and headed for the door. "You have some thinking to do," she told her brother, sighing heavily. "It's not like you have a lot of friends, and Chandler's the best one you could ask for. You need to get your priorities straight," she added, then also turned her back on him as she moved to follow Chandler.

She slammed the door behind her, once they were both out in the hall, then locked eyes with him and sighed. "Ok, you were right," she said to him with a shake of her head. "He'll never say yes to us."

Nodding, almost sadly, he then took her hand, squeezing it gently as he whispered, "I'll give you your present in the car."

"K," she replied simply, then gave a nod in the direction of the stairs, indicating that they should get going.

"I'm sorry he ruined your evening," Chandler apologized as they crossed the lobby.

Shaking her head, she muttered, "It's not your fault. I'm sorry you have to come back here and deal with him."

"I'll survive," he laughed, then told her seriously, "I almost feel bad for him."

"I don't," she returned with an irritated sigh. "He's making us both miserable!" she added, dropping her voice to a whisper when she saw the limo and the driver in the distance. "He deserves to feel guilty. Even if he's feeling guilty for the wrong thing.

"Yeah," he muttered, as if in agreement, though he wasn't sure he really did. Guilt sucked. He wouldn't wish it on his worst enemy, and Ross was far from that.

They climbed into the vehicle, Monica first, Chandler immediately after, then he locked eyes with her for a moment before slowly extending the box he was carrying towards her.

"It's not much," he whispered, "But, I wanted to do **something**, to show you, how much I appreciate you, and how proud I am of you."

"Proud?" she asked curiously, lifting the box from his possession, holding it in her lap till he answered.

Nodding, he said, "For being a straight 'A' student. You should be proud of yourself, Mon," he told her. "Not everyone **is**, ya'know."

Smiling back at him, she dropped her gaze to the present in her hands, then sighed as she tugged off the bow and slowly lifted the lid. She knew what it was, but was at a loss for why he had given it to her. He seemed to sense that, because he immediately offered an explanation.

"Usually people use these as journals," he said, plucking the small leather-bound book with blank pages from the box and thumbing through it. "I figured, you could jot recipes down in it. That way," he added, "By the time you've finished school, you'll have a huge catalog of your favorite things to make." When she said nothing in response, and only stared back at him, he sighed. "I guess it **is** kinda lame," he muttered, taking her silence to mean she didn't like it.

Without warning, she lunged towards him, and pressed her lips to his. The kiss wasn't passionate. It was a thank you.

"I love it," she whispered as she shifted away, taking the book back from him and staring down on it. "It's the best gift I've ever gotten," she added, tears pooling in her eyes. Several broke free, dropping onto the leather of the book, and she gasped as she quickly swiped her thumbs across the wet protectively. "Shit. Sorry."

Lifting the book gently from her hands, he flipped it over, wiped her tears from it onto his pants, then set it aside before pulling her into his arms. "Please don't cry," he whispered. "I hate seeing you cry."

"It sucks **so** much, Chandler," she whimpered. "It's not fair!"

Nodding, he closed his eyes tightly, stroking her hair as he choked out in a whisper, "I know it's not, but, I'm still here, ok? I'm still with you. I'll **always** be with you, just, not in the way that you want. Or that **I** want," he added honestly, then pulled back to gaze into her eyes. Gently brushing the tears from her face with his thumb, he asked, "Are you ok?"

"No," she answered truthfully, "But, I will be. Good and bad days, I guess," she muttered, and he smiled as he nodded.

"Definitely," he agreed, then suggested, "Come by tomorrow, ok? Ross will be out all day. He's taking Carol to some museum exhibit or something. We'll smoke a bowl, order some pizza, and just, talk."

"Yeah," she accepted, finally smiling. "That sounds like a plan."

"Good," he whispered, then encouraged her to sit back with him in the seat before wrapping an arm around her and pulling her tightly against him.

The rest of the drive to her house, where she still lived with her parents, dragged on in silence. There were a million things to say, but no words with which to say them. Finally, she understood what Chandler meant by what he had said earlier.

The limo pulled up in front of the house, the driver then jumping out and rounding the vehicle to open the door for them. Chandler thanked him politely as he followed Monica out, but near immediately jerked his head in a way that let him know they wanted privacy. Catching on, the man nodded as he excused himself, then walked away, leaving them alone to stare at each other awkwardly.

"This has kinda felt like a date," Chandler finally broke the silence. "Except for the Ross crap," he added, then sighed. "Normally, this is where the goodnight kiss is supposed to happen," he told her, "But, under the circumstances, that's probably not the best of ideas."

"I want you to," she admitted, and he sighed again and nodded.

"I know. I want to, too," he assured her, "But, it'll just make it harder for us, and it's already hard enough."

"I'm ok with that if you are," she whispered, her eyes searching his helplessly, like she would find comfort in the blue depths the longer she stared into them. But the comfort wasn't there.

"I'm not," he replied, then looked away, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he did.

Nodding, she asked, "What time tomorrow?"

"I think he's leaving at noon, to go pick her up," he answered, then added with a smirk, as he reinitiated eye contact, "Twelve O-one?"

She laughed, and then he did, too, before she nodded and said, "I'll be there. I won't be square," she quipped, and they both laughed again.

When the laughter subsided, serious expressions took the place of their smiles, and Chandler scoffed lightly at the situation, before stepping up to her and raking his hand into her hair. For several moments, all he did was stare intensely back at her, his fingers playing through her raven strands, but then he started to lean, and her breath hitched in response, when she realized he was. Her lips parted slightly as she anticipated his kiss, but then at the last second, he tilted his head up, and pressed his lips softly against her forehead. He lingered there, his eyes shut tight, his free arm snaking around her waist and pulling her closer. A million things to say, and not one word came to mind.

It had to end sometime, though neither one of them wanted it to. It was Chandler, who finally gathered up enough strength to pull away, but the pained look in his eyes told her he had not wanted to.

"Sweet dreams, Monica," he whispered, and she nodded.

"Thanks," she whispered back. "You, too."

**XXX**

--After slapping an insanely large tip into the chauffer's hand, Chandler dragged his body towards his dorm. His night was far from over, but not in a good way. He still had Ross to contend with. He was dreading it, with every fiber of his being. The idea of collapsing on the couch in the rec room was more than just appealing, but he knew he would have to face his friend and roommate sometime, so he shrugged it off, and headed for his room, to confront and deal with what needed to be.

Their eyes locked as soon as Chandler walked through the door, and Ross jumped to his feet seconds later, his expression hard to read, though he didn't seem angry, which was a good thing.

"Are you high?" Chandler asked cautiously, needing some sign on how the pending conversation was going to go.

Shaking his head, Ross muttered, "We'll get to that. I wanted to be lucid, when I said what I need to say."

"Alright," Chandler sighed, then shed his suit jacket and threw it on his bed. "Say it," he asked of him, almost ordering him to, though his tone showed no sign of hostility.

Sighing first, Ross announced, "The first time, you had no idea what my feelings were about it. And you were high at the time," he added, "And so was **she**. You said- you promised, that it would never happen again, and I **believed** you! And, I still do! But, somewhere along the way, when I saw how close you two were getting, I got paranoid. And, you're right, I **am** paranoid, but, I don't want to be. You gotta know, Man, I don't want to be."

"I know," Chandler sighed, then nodded and waited for him to continue.

"You were right, Man, I have no right to tell you, how much and in what way you spend time with her, or anyone. It's your guys' business, not mine. But, as her big brother, I **do** think I have the right to **ask** you, not to have sex with her."

"You **do** have the right to **ask**," Chandler agreed, "But I also have the right to **refuse**! I coulda said no to you, Ross! I coulda told you to take a flying leap! But I didn't! I didn't, cause I respect you **way** too much, to do that. We haven't had sex, Ross, I swear it. That day you walked in on us, was as close as we've ever been, and even that wasn't gonna go there."

Hesitantly, Ross asked, "Have you been close to **other** things? Intimately?"

"I'm not answering that question, Ross," Chandler grumbled, turning away to push off his shoes and kick them under his bed.

"Cause you have?" Ross asked, and Chandler sighed heavily in irritation as he spun back around to face him.

"Cause it's none of your business!" he snipped. "What Monica and I do, is none of your business, Ross! Ok?"

"So, that's a yes," Ross ventured, his tone still calm. His eyes seemed to show sadness, though, which took Chandler by surprise.

"No, it's not a yes," Chandler insisted, "And it's too vague a question to answer anyway! Even if I wanted to! Which I **don't**!"

"Should I be more specific then?" Ross asked, the suggestion a genuine one. "Should I ask specific questions, to make it less vague?"

"Oh, God," Chandler groaned, then rolled his eyes. "Dude, if you **do**, I'm heading for the rec room!"

"Have you kissed?" Ross asked, ignoring the threat.

"Besides that first day? Yes," Chandler admitted, glaring hard back at him, letting him know in doing so, to tread carefully.

"Have you… touched?"

"Other than how friends do? No," he semi-lied, not at all willing to share that his hand had been up her dress, just hours before.

"Has **she** touched **you**?"

"Dude," Chandler sighed again, "I'm not answering for her. You want the answer to that question, you're gonna have to ask **her**."

"So, that's a yes," he stated as fact, sighing as he looked away.

"It's a yes," Chandler admitted, then sighed as well. "I put a stop to it, Dude," he added. "I reminded her that we promised you, and, that was it."

"She has a thing for you," Ross muttered, and Chandler nodded.

"I know," he told him, "But that doesn't mean we're gonna do anything! We're **friends**! Friends sometimes toy with that line."

"We're friends," Ross pointed out. "**We've** never toyed with the line."

Laughing, Chandler replied, "Yeah, cause, I ain't my dad!" to which Ross laughed, too. "Look, Dude," he said, gaining seriousness once again, "What Monica and I do, is **our** business, but, I promise you, we will **never** have sex, and we will **never** date each other. I made a promise, and I don't go back on my promises. Even if Monica wants to, and I'm not saying she does, it takes two people to be in a relationship, and I'm not willing to be in one, if it means risking our friendship. If one of the two people, doesn't want to be in a relationship, then there is **no** relationship! Get it? No relationship! You need to either believe that, or, sorry, but, I'm gonna have to move out, Man. I can't take the shit you keep throwing at me anymore."

"I'll stop," Ross promised. "I don't want you to move out, and I don't want to lose you as a friend. I'll stop," he repeated, then asked, "Ok?"

Nodding, Chandler sighed again, then suggested, "Let's get fucking wasted and go to sleep. It's been a long ass day," he added as he moved towards his desk, "And I'm **so** ready to just, put it behind me."

"Sure, Dude," Ross returned with a nod of agreement, "Sounds good."

As Chandler began packing the bowl, Ross asked hesitantly, "How was dinner?"

"Good," Chandler answered, "But fucking expensive. I dropped close to a thou tonight," he added, then stopped what he was doing when he heard Ross gasp. "Dude?" he asked, "You flippin again?"

"No," Ross replied. "That's, just, a lot of money, is all."

Resuming his task, Chandler muttered indifferently, "No biggie. She had a good time. That's all that matters."

"Is your mom gonna freak though," he asked, "When she sees how much you spent?"

Shaking his head, he answered, "She doesn't watch the numbers anymore. Not after I yelled at her, the last time she blew a fuse," he added, then spun around in his chair and extended the pipe and lighter towards him. "You get greens," he told him. "And careful how hard you hit it," he warned. "New pipe, new feel."

It wasn't completely resolved, but it was a start.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

Ok, I think I've been saying the F-word too much in my last few stories. I'm saying it a lot, while out and about in my real life. That, and 'Dude'. I haven't said 'Dude' since the early 90's, LOL. Oh well. It's how us 80's kids used to talk. At least, in my little corner of the world. That, and the word 'like' in, like, almost every sentence! (smirk)

This chapter is 'oh my God' long! But, I wanted to get through these elements. The night with Monica, and the confrontation with Ross, I mean.

The **next** chapter… oh my God, the angst! Gotta love angst though, right? Well, unless it's happening in your own life. Then it's not so great. I should know.

I'm trying to work out which 'element' to start out with for chapter six, but when I do, I have tons of great ideas for it, so, it'll be a good one! I'm still not sure how long this series is going to be, but, I'm taking a guess at this point, that it'll be about 8 to 10 chapters. Just FYI.

Still working on the sequel to 'Mengliad', don't worry. More of my attention is on **this** story though, at the moment, so it's slow going.

Please review! Remember, it's what I live for.

MTLBYAKY


	5. Chapter 5

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana~

**Chapter Five**

**XXX**

--Ross was gone, the pizza was on the way, and the bowl was packed and ready to go. Chandler was near giddy with excitement, just knowing that at any minute, she would be there. Just to see her smile, was worth waking up for. He loved it when she smiled, and if he was the one to bring it to her face, all the better.

The knock at the door startled him, but in a good way, his heart picking up pace in anticipation of seeing her, and getting to spend the whole day with her. He stepped briskly to answer it, but the smiling face he expected to see, was instead turned into an expression of pain and sadness. His smile instantly dropped.

"Monica, what's wrong?" he asked, moving aside and gesturing for her to enter, his happiness-induced adrenalin rush causing his concern to escalate before he even knew what the problem was.

"I got into a **huge** fight with my mom last night," she announced as she dropped her body onto his bed. "Apparently, Ross called her last night, after he read your story, and filled her head full of shit, about how **we're** dating, and about how we **hate** him! It turned into this God awful yelling match, and I just, couldn't take it! So, I left! Just, stormed out!"

"Where did you go?" he asked, kneeling next to her, placing his hand on her leg and rubbing his thumb across it comfortingly.

"My nana's," she answered, sighing as she shook her head. "You know that bar, on the corner of Grove and Bedford?" she asked, and when he nodded, she added, "She lives right above."

"Well, at least you got away from her for the night," he replied, unsure of what else to say.

"Yeah, the night," she scoffed, then threw herself back onto his bed and informed the ceiling, "She wants me out. Out of the house. For good," she added, then immediately began to cry.

"Oh, God!" he exclaimed in a whisper, then climbed in beside her and gathered her into his arms. "How could she do that? What about your dad? What did **he** say?"

"Dad's whipped," she answered with an exasperated sigh. "He hates what she's doing, but won't do anything about it."

"Where the hell do they expect you to go?" he asked, outraged, his mind thinking up a thousand insults he could call her bitch of a mother, if only he had her on the phone, or, better yet, standing in front of him.

"Mom doesn't care," she answered. "Dad does, but had no solutions. My nana said I could move in to **her** place, but, she's moving to Florida in, like, ten days, and I can't afford it on my own! I don't even have a job! And, even if I were to go get one, it would have to be part time, or I would have to drop out of school! And I don't think I could do it with only part time income!"

His heart came up with the answer instantly, but his brain forced him to wait and think before saying anything. She would argue with him, but, he could convince her. He had to convince her. What other options were there?

"What about school?" he asked. "Are they still planning to pay for that?"

"I don't even know," she answered, sounding more mentally exhausted than angry. "If Dad can find a way around her, **he** probably would, but, my mom… if **she** has any say in it, then no."

Taking a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable battle, he exhaled before announcing, "I'll help you."

"With what?" she asked, confused.

"With the apartment," he answered. "And with your school, too, if your dad can't work it out."

"That's sweet, Chandler," she sighed, "But, I can't accept your help."

"Why not?" he asked, even though he knew what her answer was going to be.

"It's **way** too much money," she insisted, "And that just wouldn't be right. This isn't like dinner, a couple times a month!" she announced vehemently. "This is rent! And utilities! And groceries! Dinner might not drain your trust fund, but paying for an apartment **will**! There's no way I could ask you to do that!"

"Well, for starters," he told her, calmly, but still set on convincing her, "You're not asking, I'm offering. Secondly, you have no idea how much money I have, so you can't very well tell me what will or will not drain my trust fund. And, lastly, if I have to, I'll get help."

"From…?" she asked curiously, almost skeptically.

"My parents," he answered nonchalantly, then added with a shrug, like he was indifferent to the idea of it, "My parents keep trying to **buy** my love… I think I **now** have a price."

"So, you expect **me** to leech off your parents?" she asked indignantly.

Sighing, he offered evenly, "Not forever, Mon. Just until we can work some stuff out. Believe me," he added, "They can spare it."

"That doesn't matter!" she shot back, pushing out of his arms and into a sitting position. "It wouldn't be right! I wouldn't feel right about it, having them help me! They don't even **know** me!"

"Then, I'll introduce you," he offered, sitting as well, then pleaded with her, "Monica, just, listen to me for a minute. Where are you going to go? You can't live **here**! Believe me, if you could, I would move you in this instant! It just, makes sense! It's all good timing, really," he added, laughing when she quirked an eyebrow in response.

"How the hell is this good timing?" The question came across like a challenge, but he knew she wasn't angry, even with the way she stared pointedly back at him. She was more, cynically perplexed.

"You needed to get away from that bitch!" he explained. "Your nana is leaving! I have money to burn at the moment! Granted," he added, "We'll need to figure something else out before I graduate, but, for the next two years, we're set!"

"**You're** set!" she countered. "It's not **my** money!"

"No, it's **mine**!" he shot back, though not at all crossly, "And I can spend it, any way I want to! Don't make me thump you," he added, smirking, then laughing when she cracked a tiny smile. "Good," he announced, then pushed off his bed and grabbed for her hand, pulling her up to stand with him. "C'mon," he ordered as he took charge and started leading her towards the door.

"Where are we going?" she asked, shuffling her feet in defiance of being dragged unwillingly.

"To see your new apartment," he answered, spinning around to face her when she yanked her hand from his.

"Chandler, no," she told him sternly, standing firm with her arms crossed. "It's too much money! I can't accept! I appreciate it," she told him, her tone warm and grateful in contrast to the harsher one she had been using, "But, I just, wouldn't feel right about it."

"Tell me why," he asked of her, almost demanding, crossing his arms like she was and adopting a scowl.

"Why?" she asked, "So you can take every point I make and twist it around in an attempt to convince me to do this?"

"Yep!" he answered simply.

"Nope!" she replied, in the same exact tone he'd used, then moved to retake her seat on his bed.

"Monica," he sighed, stepping over and dropping to his knees beside her, "Stop being so stubborn! We can make this work! Look," he added, sighing again, "If you're **so** worried about the money, then, we'll keep a log, and when you become a famous chef, you can pay me back. Or my parents. Or half and half. Whatever," he muttered, waving dismissively over the unimportant details. "You need a place, one is being offered to you, and **I** can help! The pieces of the puzzle just, **fit**, and you know it."

"What would you even tell your parents?" she asked, not yet agreeing, but interested enough to get more information.

"That I'm keeping a girl on the side," he answered, then laughed when her eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped open in response. "Chill, Monica, ok? I'm gonna tell them the truth. That my very good friend is in a bind, and needs a little help for a while. And I'll only share whatever details of that, that you want me to, ok? As much or as little as you're comfortable with."

"What if they say no?" she asked. "What if they don't want to help out **your** friend?"

"They won't say no, ok?" he assured her. "Trust me, I know them better than you do. If anything," he added with a short laugh, "They'll try to figure out how to write it off as a tax deduction or something. Like, as a charitable donation or something."

"Oh, **that** makes me wanna jump up and do this," she said sarcastically. "Monica, the charity case," she muttered additionally, to which he laughed and took her hand.

"My parents are weird, ok?" he told her. "What **they** think doesn't matter. **I** know the truth. **We** know the truth," he corrected himself, "And that's all that matters."

"And, what's the truth?" she asked cautiously.

"That you have a bitch of a mother, a brilliant future, and you just need a little help to get launched into your fabulous new life."

A tiny smile appeared, and then grew. "You always know just what to say," she whispered.

"Always," he whispered back, then asked, "Do me a favor?"

"Anything," she replied without hesitation.

"Show me your new apartment?" She rolled her eyes at the request, playfully, then smiled and nodded. "Good!" he exclaimed, then helped her to stand and led her towards the door. Just as he reached for the knob, a loud knock at it rung out, and they both startled before Chandler finished reaching and pulled it open.

"Hey," the pizza guy standing before them offered with an upnod, then extended the box towards them as he muttered, "That'll be nine dollars."

Chandler quickly retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, extracted a ten dollar bill, handed it to the man, then tucked his billfold back where it came from before snatching the box from him. "Move, Dude," he ordered, then smiled in apology for his rudeness as he added, "We're on our way out, Man."

The man seemed thoroughly confused, but stepped away from the door anyway, then headed away and down the hall as Chandler and Monica smirked over at each other.

"I think you broke his brain," she quipped, and then they both started laughing.

"Probably not a hard thing to do," he quipped back, then pushed into the hall, her right behind him, before shutting the door and taking the first step to leave.

"You're bringing it with us?" she asked, in reference to the pizza, then took a few jogged steps to catch up.

"I'm hungry," he laughed, then added, "We'll eat it on the way."

"While **walking**?" she asked, surprised, her tone showing her complete and total unwillingness to eat while on the move.

"We'll take a cab," he answered, then crossed the lobby quickly and purposefully, attempting to and succeeding in beating the pizza delivery man to the twin glass doors. Smirking in triumph, he backed out one of them, stood to hold it open as Monica and the confused man stepped through, then asked her as they headed for the street, "Does your nana like pizza?"

"I would assume so," she answered. "Doesn't everyone?"

"Everyone **I** know," he laughed, then nearly launched himself in front of the first cab he saw.

The taxi screeched to a halt, and the driver of it glared at Chandler through the windshield for making him have to slam on his brakes. In apology, Chandler shrugged and smiled sheepishly, then moved to join Monica, climbing in right behind her.

"Grove and Bedford," he informed the irritated man on the other side of the plexiglass, then proceeded to open the boxed pizza and extract a slice.

"You're weird," Monica muttered teasingly, then helped herself to a slice as well, hiding a smirk when he laughed.

"Cause I brought my lunch along?" he asked, and she nodded only in answer.

"Smells good," the driver called out over his shoulder, his eyes remaining on the road ahead of them, and Chandler smirked in response.

"Want a slice, Dude?" Chandler offered, more than willing to share, since he had only just pissed the man off seconds before, then immediately grabbed him a piece and extended it through the little window in the barrier between them.

"Thanks, Man! You don't mind?" the driver asked, only swerving a little when he accepted it.

"Nah," Chandler laughed, "You caught me at a good time! I ain't stoned yet!" When Monica gasped, he turned his attention to her. "What?"

"Don't tell him that," she whispered, looking almost frantically worried. "What if he…?"

When she trailed off, Chandler laughed, then settled back in the seat next to her. "Mon, Honey, he doesn't care. You don't care if I smoke weed, do you?" he asked the driver, just to prove the point, then laughed again when Monica smacked him.

"Nah, Man," the driver replied, "I blaze myself. No worries!"

"See?" Chandler said to her, "He doesn't care."

"One day, someone might," she muttered. In response, he rolled his eyes as he set the pizza box, his slice atop it, down on the seat beside him, then wrapped an arm around her and pulled her against him.

"What's anyone gonna do?" he asked her, "Bust me for **saying** it? You can't get busted for **saying** you smoke weed, Mon," he told her, "You can only get busted for **actually** smoking it! They gotta catch you with it **on** you! And I ain't carrying right now, so, just, chill, k?"

"Why take chances?" she challenged him. "Better to be safe than sorry," she added with a sigh. Despite the fact that she was frustrated, she snuggled deeper into his side, then tossed her pizza slice past him and onto the box beside him, before sliding her hand up to rest on his chest.

"Fine," he sighed, with an edge of humor to his tone, then called back out to the driver, "Dude, I lied before. I don't blaze."

The driver laughed, then announced, "Yeah, me too! Big fat liar, is what **I** am!"

"Ok, then!" Chandler laughed, too, but then stopped and tightened his hold on her when he heard her sigh in irritation. "Ok, ok, I'm sorry," he apologized, sounding a little amused, but mostly sincere, "I'll stop. I wasn't trying to upset you," he insisted, "I was just--"

"Making fun of me," she cut him off, sighing again.

"No, I wasn't making fun of you," he insisted, "I was just, having a little fun."

"At my expense," she muttered, then pushed out of his arms and stared back at him pointedly. "I'm sorry if I worry too much," she told him, "But that's who I am. I worry, cause I care! I don't want to see anything bad happen to you," she added, and for a brief moment, it looked to Chandler like she might start crying.

"Oh, wow, ok, Mon, shit, I'm sorry!" he apologized again, with much more sincerity than before, bringing her back against his side and planting a soft kiss in her hair as he added, "I won't joke around like that anymore, ok? I swear. Don't be upset," he asked of her, almost pleadingly, then nuzzled into her hair, as if the show of affection would convince her to forgive him.

The feel of his lips against her dwarfed all concerns and frustrations she had in that moment, and she nodded slight as she whispered, "Just, be careful who you say stuff to, ok?"

"I will," he promised her, then shifted just a fraction of an inch from his position as he slowly started to reach beside him. When she realized what he was doing, she laughed. "What?" he asked, laughing as well, "I'm hungry!"

"You can eat," she told him, moving to leave his arms, but the action was met with resistance, and then he pulled her back towards him.

"I can eat and hold you at the same time!" he assured her, then brought the half eaten slice to his mouth and took a bite. "See?" he mumbled, "No problem."

Scoffing at his antics, she settled herself comfortably against him once again, ignoring her slice of pizza in favor of the casual affection he was showing her. She could always eat later. It was moments like the one she was in, that made her days worthwhile. She would soak up every little bit of him that she could, before the ability to do so was taken from her.

"You ok?" he asked, several silent minutes later, after his pizza was all but eaten. "You're kinda quiet," he added, wondering, though only to himself, if her lack of conversation had anything to do with him, and her previously discussed concerns.

"Just thinking," she answered, casually enough, but the slight worry in her tone caught his attention.

"About?" he asked.

"Just wondering if I shoulda maybe called her first," she answered, shifting with him as he moved just enough to snag her discarded slice of pizza off the box. "She isn't expecting us," she added, "And while I doubt she'd care, it just, seems a little rude."

Sensing there was more to her slightly unorganized musings, he simply hummed in response, then waited patiently for her to work it out and continue.

"Then again," she rambled on, "She told me last night, that hardly anyone ever comes to visit her anymore, and that she gets lonely, and wishes people would."

"There'ya go, then," he mumbled around his mouthful of food, then chewed and swallowed before asking, "Is this your mom's mom, or your dad's?"

"Dad's," she answered, "And the sweetest woman you'll ever meet."

"Second sweetest," he corrected, then smirked as he added, "First sweetest has already been crowned."

Her smile grew wider as she sighed contentedly, lost in thought as they fell into yet another elongated silence, but that lasted for a minute or two only.

"You know I meant **you**, right?" he asked, and she laughed in response.

"Yeah," she whispered, "I know."

"Good."

**XXX**

--Monica could only stare at the door. She didn't know why she was nervous, she just knew that she was, and because of it, her body refused to see the simple action through.

"We'll have a better shot of her knowing we're here, if you actually knock, Mon," he quipped, then took her hand by the wrist and raised it up to the door.

She pulled away from his light grip anxiously, trying her best to ignore his smirk of amusement, then took a deep breath to settle herself before finally forcing knuckles to meet wood.

"Coming!" a voice from inside the apartment called out, then there was a moment of nothing, before they heard the chain slide, and saw the door fly open. "Monica! Back so soon? I thought you weren't coming back till later tonight!"

"I know," Monica sighed, offering her grandmother a brief hug, "But, I was thinking, after I left this morning, about what we talked about, and… Oh! I'm sorry!" She interrupted herself suddenly, then gestured back towards Chandler as she began introductions. "Nana, this is Chandler. Chandler, this is my nana."

Smiling politely, Chandler extended his hand, then greeted her simply, with a nod, "Ma'am."

"Ma'am?" Nana scoffed, then took his hand and shook it as she told him, "You can call me Nana. Everyone does," she added, almost proudly, then gestured for them both to enter.

Monica stepped further in, followed by Chandler, before she continued with what she had previously been saying. "I know I said I couldn't afford the place on my own, but, I think, maybe, I actually can. If- if the offer is still good," she added, glancing at Chandler briefly, before returning her attention to her grandmother.

"Wonderful!" Nana exclaimed, then she pointed at the couch, as an invitation for them to sit, before offering, "Can I get you kids something to drink?" Without even waiting for the answer, she headed into the kitchen and straight for the fridge.

"Thanks, Nana," Monica accepted, then looked to Chandler and gave a little jerk of her head towards the couch. "Lemonade," she whispered to him as she led the way into the livingroom, knowing before her grandmother even pulled the pitcher out, what was about to be served.

Following, he waited for her to sit first, quickly taking the seat beside her, then whispered as he did, "This place is perfect."

Monica nodded in agreement, then turned her head at the sound of her voice when her grandmother called out from the kitchen.

"So, Chandler," she asked cheerfully, "Helped Monica to come up with a solution, did we?"

"Yes, Ma'am- I mean, Nana," he corrected himself, then repeated, "Yeah, Nana, I think so."

"Wonderful!" she chirped, then moved to put the half empty pitcher back into the fridge.

When Chandler saw three glasses sitting on the counter, he jumped from his seat. "Hey, here, let me help with that," he offered, then darted over to assist.

Returning to the couch, Nana directly behind him, Chandler passed Monica her glass, then took a seat beside her once again.

"So," Nana requested as she inched into the chair to the left of the couch, "Tell me all about your plan."

"Well, **Nana**…" He overemphasized her name, to show that he remembered to call her that, and because it seemed a little weird to, then began to explain. "You see, my parents, they're rich. Filthy, really, and, each month, I get a **sizable** monthly allowance. **Way** more than I need, actually, especially since I **also** have a college fund, that pays my tuition, and for books and such. And, well, I offered to help for a while, until Monica can get on her feet and work things out."

"That's very generous of you," Nana replied with a slight smirk as she tipped her glass to her lips.

"I'm gonna pay him back, though," Monica chimed in, fidgeting with her glass, pushing at the beads of perspiration that had begun to form with her finger nervously.

Nana nodded in understanding after bringing the glass back down to her lap, then suggested, "You'll want to keep a very accurate record of your expenses then. Let me go get my stack of bills," she announced, setting her glass down on the coffee table before moving to stand, "And we'll crunch some numbers."

As she headed off to the room by the large bay window, Monica quickly reached over to the endtable beside her, plucked a coaster from the stack of them that sat there, then placed it under her grandmother's glass. Chandler smirked discreetly, but said nothing.

"If the lease stays in my name," Nana called out from the bedroom, seconds later emerging, "The rent will stay the same, because it's rent controlled, but the utilities fluctuate each month, depending on usage, so, this will just be to get a rough idea." She then handed the stack of papers over to Chandler, who accepted them with a smile and nod, and then immediately beginning to scan through them as Monica leaned in and hovered over him, doing the same.

"Oh, Mon," he told her with a reassuring tone, "This is **totally** doable!"

"Yeah?" she asked, smiling slight when he grinned over at her.

"Absolutely," he insisted, then took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze before asking Nana, "Could I maybe use your phone? Now that I know the numbers," he explained, "I should really call my mom. She likes to know, when I spend large amounts of money quickly, what it's going to."

"Of course," she answered, both in understanding, and in reference to him using the phone, then pointed towards it on the kitchen counter.

"Thanks," he returned politely, then handed the stack of bills off to Monica before taking a deep breath and pushing off the couch. He wished in that moment that he was high. It would make the impending conversation that much more tolerable.

"Helga, hi," he said into the phone, after punching in the number and waiting the several rings for the pickup, "It's Chandler. Is my mom around? -- Of course she is," he laughed, then asked, "Is she in her zone? Can she take a break? –- Yeah, thanks, I'll wait."

Monica watched as he dropped his head, tucked his hand into his pocket, and began scuffing his foot across the floor, realizing then, by those three actions alone, just how uncomfortable he really was, talking to his mother.

"Mom, hi," he said, his head snapping up, his hand remaining in his pocket as he stood a little straighter, "It's Chandler. –- Um, your son. Since I came out of you and all, I would think you would remember… -- Oh, ha, ha, very funny. -– Yes, I know it's been a while," he sighed, "I just, figured you'd be busy, with your new book and all. –- That's great, Mom. Cranking out one a year, it seems. –- I'm good. –- Um, yeah, actually, I have. –- Well, I think you'll be proud of me on this, actually, but… writing. –- Yeah, I guess I am. And you thought I was gonna follow in dad's," he laughed.

"Yeah, um, there **is** a reason, actually," he continued, stammering slightly. "You said you wanted me to tell you, if ever I was about to spend a large sum of money, and, well, I'm about to. Ongoing. –- No, Mom, I'm not in any trouble," he sighed, "And, actually, it's not exactly for **me**. –- A friend of mine… You remember Ross, right? –- Yeah, his little sister, Monica. Anyway, she's in a bind, and… -- No! Mom! God! No, she's not pregnant! Shit! –- Yeah, well, if you'd just let me tell you! –- Right. Ok, sorry. –- Ok, well, she kinda got kicked out of her house… -- Her mom. –- Cause she's a bitch. -– Well, indirectly, I'm kinda the reason why it happened. -– It's a **long**, weird story, Mom. –- Well, she **has** a place to go, but, she needs a little help affording it, until she can get on her feet, and, ya'know, work things out."

"About half the monthly allowance, each month," he said, wincing a second later. "I know it is, Mom, but, it's **my** money. -– Well, yeah, I know it's technically **yours**, but, you're **giving** it to me! Does it really matter what I spend it on? –- I **am** living on it! Comfortably! –- No, she's not my girlfriend. She's just a friend who needs a little help for a while. –- Why? -– Fine," he sighed, "I'll ask, but **don't** attack her! –- You know what I mean," he sighed again, then dropped the phone to his side and turned to face Monica. "My mom wants to talk to you."

Nodding, Monica pushed off the couch to join him in the kitchen. "Maybe we should just forget about it," she whispered, but Chandler immediately shook his head and put his hand over the mouthpiece of the phone.

"She's fine, Mon. This is just her way. Just, talk to her," he asked of her, then extended the phone towards her.

She took it hesitantly, bringing it up to her ear cautiously, then said into it meekly, "Um, hi. This is Monica. -– Fine, Mrs. Bing, how are you? -– Oh, ok. Nora. -– Um, through my brother. -– No, actually, I don't go to school **with** him. –- Yeah, I'm in school, but, it's a culinary institute. -– A chef, yeah. -– Um, no, not yet, but I'm gonna get one! –- Yeah, it would **have** to be part time, or, I would have to drop out of school. -– Yeah, I wouldn't want to have to do that, either. -– Straight 'A' student," she stated proudly, a small smile then inching onto her face.

"Yeah, well, that's what I'm **hoping** for," she laughed, leaning on the counter nearby, a wide smile on her face, as if she was actually enjoying the phone conversation. Chandler quirked an eyebrow in response, more than just curious to know what was being said. "Well, it's weird, really, like Chandler said," she sighed. "Chandler wrote this fictional story, and my brother read it, and **he** thought it was about **us**… -- Me, Chandler, and Ross. -– No, it wasn't. It was this really sweet love story, but, there was an evil stepfather in it, and Ross thought **he** was **that** character. So, typical Ross, he flipped out and called our mom. -– Yeah, well, she doesn't like me very much. –- I really don't know why. –- Yeah, I told her that, but, she didn't care."

"Well," she explained, "It's my nana's apartment. She's moving to Florida in about a week, and she's subletting it to me. -– It's rent controlled, so, actually, it's a pretty good deal. –- Yeah, and with the utilities. -– I don't know yet. I might need help with groceries, too. -– Um, yeah, sure, hold on." She turned to face Chandler, put her hand over the mouthpiece, then whispered, "She wants to talk to you again."

Nodding, he took the phone, then whispered back, "Are you ok?" When she nodded, he nodded in return, then retook the call. "Yeah, it's me. -– She is," he agreed with a smile, then winked at Monica. "Well, I won't say no to a raise," he laughed, "But, I crunched the numbers, and I can do it without one. -– Yeah, Mom, that's **more** than enough. Thank you."

Suddenly, he dropped the phone to his side, looked up at the ceiling, mouthed the words, 'fuck me', then returned the phone to his ear. "Let me ask," he said, then looked to Monica, almost helplessly. "My mom wants to know if we can have dinner tomorrow night."

"Yes!" she exclaimed in a whisper, nodding emphatically, then smirked when he groaned and dropped his head.

"Yeah, Mom, we can make it," he said in a forced-cheerful tone, then asked, "Where and what time? –- Yeah, I remember. -– Ok, see'ya then. -– I love you, too, Mom," he muttered, almost sarcastically, but then cracked a tiny smile. "Yeah, bye."

"Why don't you want to have dinner with her?" Monica asked him, the moment he hung up the phone, a slight scowl of confusion on her face. "Is dinner with her a **bad** thing?"

"Bad?" he answered, "No. An **experience**? Definitely."

"She seemed like a very nice lady," she muttered, still at a loss for why he didn't want to see her.

"Oh, she **is**," he agreed, "But she's, well, a bit… **much**."

"In what way?" she asked curiously.

Laughing, he answered, "You'll see."

"So, what's the verdict?" Nana asked, finally speaking up after having stayed quietly out of things till then.

"It's a go," Chandler answered, then immediately wrapped his arms around Monica and lifted her to spin her around. "Mom's even giving me more money! Not that I think I'll need it," he added as he set Monica onto her feet, "But, whatever I don't use **now**, I get to keep for when I start out on **my** own! So, that's pretty cool!"

"I can't believe it," Monica sighed as she looked around her new apartment. "I feel like such a grownup!"

"You can stay here, Sweetie," Nana offered as she approached the two of them from off the livingroom, "Until I go. You can help me pack," she added, then laughed when Monica's eyes and smile grew wide with excitement.

"I **love** packing!" she exclaimed. "Don't like **moving**," she added, "But I **love** packing!"

"And you think **I'm** weird," Chandler laughed, then, sensing their business was done, extended his hand towards Monica's grandmother and offered a polite smile. "It was a pleasure, meeting you," he told her, then added as they shook, "Have fun in Florida."

"Oh, Honey," she scoffed, "Old people don't go to Florida to have fun. They go to wind down the clock."

Staring back for a moment, somewhat uncomfortable, but mostly just amused at how easygoing she seemed, he finally said, in an upbeat tone, "Well, then, have fun with your clock."

Nana laughed, then turned to Monica and said, as if Chandler wasn't standing right there and could hear her, "I like him. He **is** cute and funny."

Essentially, without saying the actual words, her grandmother had just let it be known, that Monica had been talking about him to her. A thousand shades of red colored her face, her eyes dropping to the floor out of embarrassment as she muttered, "Yeah, thanks, Nana."

"Oh, pish-posh," Nana scoffed, waving dismissively at her granddaughter's reaction, then announced to the two of them, "You kids go run along now and play! It's Saturday! You should be out having fun! Not stuck here with an old coot like me!"

"Play?" he laughed, then nodded before turning towards the door. Glancing back after opening it, he saw Monica giving her nana a hug, and in an attempt to give them some privacy, quietly slipped out and into the hall.

Leaning against the wall, his hands tucking into his pockets, Chandler smiled to himself. The apartment was perfect. It was a place where they could hang out, it was closer than her parents' house, and, more importantly, it got her away from her tyrant of a mother. If she was still living there in a couple years, maybe he'd see if there was an availability in the building.

"Sorry about that," Monica apologized as she entered the hall and closed the door. "She wanted to rave about you."

"I liked her, too," he laughed. "She's cool."

"Yeah, she is," Monica agreed with a smile, then asked, "You ready?"

"Yep! Still wanna hang out?" he asked, and she nodded as they both headed for the stairs. "Good!" he exclaimed, "Cause the bowl is already packed and waiting! We definitely have reason to celebrate," he added, then took her hand and brought it up to kiss the back of it. "Congratulations," he whispered. "This is a good, big step for you."

"I know," she sighed. "It's cool, but a little scary," she admitted as they descended towards the lobby.

"I know," he soothed, "But I'll be here to help you, ok? Don't sweat the small shit, alright?" he offered brightly. "Just, be happy in the moment! It's a good moment," he added, then turned her to face him with a tug of her hand, once off the stairs and in the lobby, gathering her into his arms as he repeated in a whisper, "It's a good moment."

"It is," she agreed, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him tighter to her. "And it wouldn't be," she added, "If it wasn't for you."

"I'm happy to help," he told her, then shifted away just a little, tucking a strand of hair that had fallen out of her ponytail back behind her ear as he insisted softly, "**More** than happy to."

Her breath hitched at the innocent yet slightly intimate show of affection, and even though he noticed, he didn't shy away or drop his hand. Instead, he caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, then leaned in and lightly kissed her lips. Sighing his name, dizzy from the adrenalin, she fell gently into him, her weight dependant on him, then pressed her forehead against his chest and inhaled deeply to settle her nerves. Dropping her arms from off his shoulders, lifelessly, she allowed them to dangle at her sides, the only thing keeping her upright being his hold on her, and her locked knees.

"I'm sorry, Monica," he whispered guiltily, "I'm not trying to hurt you."

"I know," she whispered back. "I'm not hurting, I'm just…"

When she trailed off, he nodded, understanding perfectly what she was trying to say, even with the lack of words. "I know."

"I want to stay here forever," she told him, and while it wasn't exactly what she meant, Chandler used the statement in the literal sense, and went for the joke.

"Well, I think, eventually, our legs would get tired. And the janitor would probably get annoyed, having to sweep and mop around us."

A smile inched onto her face, and then she laughed, her head finally clearing enough to risk standing on her own. She pushed back, scoffing in slight embarrassment, then chanced furthering it by looking up into his eyes. The expression he held was so warm and caring, it almost caused her to swoon again.

"You ok?" he asked, and she nodded as she looked away.

"I'm alright," she assured him, though it was far from true, then took a step back and cleared her throat before suggesting, "Let's go get wasted."

Laughing, he made the first move in their walk towards the exit, then announced, "Two bowls it is! One in celebration, and one just because!"

**XXX**

--Two bowls turned into three, though Chandler ended up smoking most of the third bowl by himself. Still, Monica was flying. Sufficiently in the clouds and numb to all pain, real or imaginary. It was a good feeling.

Chandler kicked on the air purifier after placing his pipe and stash back in his drawer, then climbed into bed beside Monica. Settling in, he gathered her into his arms, as he usually did after they got high together, then kissed her hair and sighed contentedly before allowing his eyes to drift closed.

But sleep refused to find him.

The intoxicating scent of her was enough to awaken his body, but then he realized that he could feel her breathing, as the rise and fall of her chest danced against him, and all sense of logic was lost.

Shifting positions, he rolled onto his side to hover over her, studying her face intently, watching for any signs that would indicate her level of awareness. When her eyes slowly opened, his heart climbed into his throat, and before either of them knew what was happening, his lips were on hers.

It seemed like a dream, like so many she'd had, but it felt too real to be one. If it was, she prayed she wouldn't wake from it. Every fiber of her being was raw and alive, her soul pleading to be one with his, her body craving to be touched and satisfied by him, and him alone. Beautiful dream or amazing reality, there was only one way to know for sure.

Then his hand slipped under her blouse, slowly ascending, his fingertips scarcely in contact with her skin, and it eliminated all doubt.

The moment was fragile, and she knew it. She didn't know what had caused it to happen in the first place, but, whatever it was, she was grateful for it, and wasn't about to take it for granted. Touching him was out of the question. The last few times she had tried, it startled him into stopping. She kept her hands fisted and by her side, resisting the urge to run her fingers through his hair, focusing only on the soft yet bordering on passionate kiss they were sharing.

But he had initiated things this time. Surely that meant he wasn't going to stop. When his hand dipped under and past the silk material of her bra, then coming in contact with her bare breast, all worries left her mind, the only thoughts remaining being of how perfect it felt. She was swimming, drowning, dying slowly, and being brought back to life, all at the same time, and it was the most incredible thing she had ever experienced.

And then she moaned.

Everything stopped. Everything. His lips ceased to kiss her, his hand lay motionless. She wasn't even sure if he was still breathing. Then he pulled back, just an inch, shifting and leaning so that his forehead came to rest on hers. She knew what was coming, before he even uttered a word.

"Oh, God, don't hate me," he whispered, tortured, and her eyes squeezed tighter together in an attempt to stave off the tears.

"Fuck." It was said in a barely audible level of voice, but he heard it anyway.

"I'm **so** sorry," he told her, then pressed a gentle kiss to where his forehead had just been resting, before rolling away and inching to the far edge of the bed.

"Chandler," she whispered, but he just held his hand up, requesting she say nothing. Sighing, she moved closer, snuggling up against him, then, cutting all pretenses, slid her hand down his body to rub him through his slacks. It took him several moments to respond, but when he finally did, it wasn't what she had hoped for.

Gently, almost lovingly, he took her hand off himself, then flipped over, stomach down, and buried his face in his pillow. Though she knew he wasn't, it looked as though he was trying to suffocate himself.

"Fuck!" he screamed, the sound muffled. "Fuck! Shit! Hell!"

Tears dropped to her cheeks, but she ignored them. "Chandler," she sighed, chancing the possible negative reaction and placing her hand on his back, "I've been there. How many times have I thrown myself at you?" she asked rhetorically, then answered herself. "A lot. And, every time, you tell me, that it's ok. That we'll, just, forget about it. Move past it. We will this time, too," she assured him, trying desperately to offer him some kind of comfort. She had no idea if she had reached him, until his next outburst showed her that she hadn't.

"This is **so fucking messed up**! I keep telling you we can't, and then I go and fucking do **that**!"

Sighing, she pushed gently at his shoulder, encouraging him to roll over, but he just shrugged her off and remained where he was. "Chandler," she whispered, dropping her hand to the bed and sighing again, "Please, just, talk to me."

Groaning in response, he finally shifted positions, turning onto his side, his face slowly leaving the pillow to look over at her. When their eyes finally locked, Monica had to stop herself from gasping when she realized, he had been crying.

"Oh, God, Chandler, don't do this," she whispered, then reached out to gently touch his cheek. "Ross' stupid issues shouldn't cause **this** much grief!"

"I'm not pissed at myself cause I broke my promise to Ross," he told her, his eyes staring straight and intensely into hers.

"Then, why are you?" she asked, confused.

"I had no right to do that to you, Monica," he answered, then sighed and looked away. "I keep telling you we can't. I keep pushing you away. This has been hard enough for you. For **both** of us!" he added, "And, what I just did, messes with emotions. I had no right to mess with you like that. No right! Causing you pain, is the **last** thing I wanna do!"

"I know," she whispered.

"And I just keep fucking doing it!" he exclaimed, almost overtop of her, then sighed again as he collapsed his previously tense and partially upright body onto the mattress.

"Chandler," she whispered, then stated firmly, "You're not causing me pain. I'm frustrated! I want this, and I know you do, too, and that frustrates me! But, you're not **hurting** me!"

"Yeah, well, I'm sure not making you feel **great**!" he countered.

"What you were doing **before**, felt pretty great," she quipped, trying to break the tension.

It worked. Chandler laughed shortly, his smile slight as it quickly subsided, then he shook his head and scoffed. "Yeah," he whispered, "It did. It felt **really** great," he admitted, sighing as he reached for her hand. "So," he asked cautiously, "You don't hate me?"

"I told you, Chandler," she answered, "No amount of rejection, will ever change the way I feel about you."

"No matter how many times I say no," he told her, "It will **never** change how **I** feel about **you**."

Nodding, smiling, she relaxed herself, her eyes remaining locked with his, both on their sides and facing each other. There was a moment of silent understanding that passed between them, and neither dared to blink, as if they might miss something if they did. It was Monica, who finally spoke up, attempting to move them into some semblance of semi-normal casualness.

"So," she asked with a sarcastic, joking lilt, "How much do you hate Ross right now?"

Laughing in response, which brought a smile to her face, he answered, "I don't **hate** Ross. I don't **get** him, but, I don't **hate** him."

"Well, then, you're doing better than me," she quipped, and when he laughed again, she did, too. "How did it go last night?" she then asked, gaining slight seriousness. "Did you guys work stuff out?"

"A little bit," he answered, somewhat optimistically. "I think we have a ways to go still," he added, "But, I think we're getting there."

"He didn't tell you he called our mom?" she asked.

"No," he answered, then sighed. "If he **had** told me that, I woulda kicked his ass! But, probably a good thing it didn't come to that," he added, "Since everything is going to work out for the best, anyway."

"He's gonna freak, ya'know," she mentioned, "If you tell him **you're** helping me with the apartment."

"You think I have a death wish?" he laughed. "I have **no** intention of telling him **I'm** helping you with it."

Scowling, she said, "He's gonna wonder, how I'm able to afford it."

"Already got an idea on that," he told her, then smirked when she cocked an eyebrow curiously. "I'm gonna tell him my **mom** is helping you. That it's one of her, pet projects or something."

"Not so sure he'll buy that, Chandler," she said with a sigh. "With the way he's being right now, your mom is just a micro-step away from **you**."

"I got it covered, Hun, ok?" he said, the term of endearment he'd used making her smile, and then she nodded. But, she didn't have long to enjoy it.

The sound of footsteps in the hall was a common occurrence, but when someone was stepping up to the door, the floorboards creaked differently, and Chandler was all too familiar with the sound.

"Speak of the devil," he whispered, then before the sentence was even fully out of his mouth, he rolled off the edge of the bed and landed onto the floor. He flipped over onto his back just as Ross was stepping in, who stopped his entrance short, and only stared down at Chandler in disbelief.

"Dude," Ross asked in total bewilderment, "What the hell are you doing on the floor?"

"My back was hurting," Chandler lied, "And I figured the hard of it would help. It doesn't," he added, laughing, then pushed up off the ground and asked casually, "What's up? Why you back so soon?"

Sighing, Ross muttered, "I made the mistake of going to Mom's **first**, before the museum. We never made it to the exhibit," he added, then sighed again.

"She pissed?" Monica asked, then scooted herself to the edge of Chandler's bed and dangled her legs over the side.

"Let's just say, Dad's looking at gun brochures," Ross answered, then kicked the door closed, since his hands were otherwise occupied to accomplish the task.

"For himself or her?" Monica asked jokingly, smirking when her brother scoffed.

"Murder/suicide," he answered, then they both laughed. "Here," he said, then extended the bags in his hands towards her. "I have no idea what's in them. They could be your fat clothes, for all I know. Mom just started, chucking stuff from the closet into bags."

"My fat clothes are boxed and in the garage," Monica muttered indifferently, then took the bags and set them down beside the bed. "Why did you even call her, Ross?" she asked him, somewhat challengingly, though her tone remained calm.

"I was mad," he answered guiltily, shrugging as he added, "I didn't think it would cause **this**. I was just looking to vent."

"Did you at least try to explain it to her?" she asked him. "Today, while you were there?"

"Yeah, I told her everything," he insisted, "But, she said, it wasn't about **that** anymore. She said it's about how you acted, last night," he added, almost sheepishly.

"All I did was stand up for myself," she shot back, then sighed and shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she muttered, "I've got it worked out."

"You have a place to stay?" he asked curiously, bordering on excitedly, to which Monica nodded, and Chandler braced himself.

"Nana's apartment," Monica replied, then added, "She's subletting it to me."

"But," Ross asked with a confused scowl, "How can you afford that?"

"Funny story," Chandler chimed in, standing from where he'd been sitting at his desk. "I called my mom, to let her know how much I dropped for dinner last night… You know, head her aneurysm off at the pass, so to speak? And, well, I got to telling her about Monica's situation. Seems she's been looking for a new pet project, I guess, and, well, she offered to help."

"Help, how?" Ross asked skeptically.

"You know," Chandler said with a shrug, trying to downplay it, "Rent. Utilities. Stuff like that. Just till Monica gets on her feet and all," he added, then shrugged again.

"Why?" Ross asked, his tone almost challenging.

Chandler could see Monica fidgeting out of the corner of his eye, so he laughed, as much to calm her as to continue his act with Ross, then said, "Cause, she's weird, Dude! You know my mom! You've met her!" he announced, then laughed again, but shortly. "She does this kind of shit, Man! Last pet project," he shared, "She adopted some cat at the shelter. But not to take home! It stayed at the shelter! But, I swear, it was the only fur ball down there with a velvet pillow and a diamond collar!"

"So, Monica's like a stray or abandoned cat to your mom?" Ross asked, his tone showing that he took offence to that.

"Nah, Man," Chandler replied, "It's not like that. She's done all kinds of different types of charity work and stuff. Gets a big tax write off or deduction or something," he added with a shrug, then assured him, "She actually **likes** Monica! She spoke with her on the phone for a bit, and said she sounds like a very lovely person! I think that's why she decided to help her, actually. We're all going out to dinner, tomorrow night, to hammer out the details."

Ross still seemed skeptical, but he stopped the interrogation, so Chandler viewed it like a slight victory. Maybe more questions would come later, but, at least for the moment, things were calm, and that was better than the alternative.

"Dinner with your mom," Ross muttered sarcastically, then added as he headed for his closet, "Lucky you."

"Be glad **you** don't have to go, Man," Chandler laughed, then watched as Ross pulled him empty duffle bag from off the top shelf. "Hangin with Carol tonight?" he asked, and Ross nodded in answer.

"She had a thing with her folks last night," he explained, "Which is why she canceled, but, she says she wants to make it up to me tonight." He stopped packing to smirk back at Chandler briefly, then resumed.

"Eww," Monica said with a pulled face of disgust, then pushed off the bed and headed for the door. "Going to the restroom," she tossed over her shoulder, then promptly left.

"You guys just hangin out tonight?" Ross asked, and Chandler flinched at the question.

"Yeah," he answered, trying to sound casual, "Or, maybe we'll head down to the coffeehouse, or go catch a movie. I dunno," he added, then shrugged indifferently.

"Is she stayin here tonight, or goin back to Nana's?"

"Your nana is expecting her," Chandler answered, "So… yeah."

"Do me a favor?" Ross asked, and Chandler nodded, but remained leery. "Make sure she gets over there ok? And not too late? The bar downstairs gets out at two, and who the hell knows what could happen to her, ya'know?"

"Yeah, Man," Chandler replied, "I'll get her back there **way** before two."

"Thanks, Man." Ross zipped up his bag and slung the strap over his shoulder, then muttered a simple, "See'ya," before heading for and out the door.

And that was it. No wild accusations. No nuclear meltdowns. No inappropriate questions or paranoia. Chandler smiled, then dropped back down into the chair by his desk. Maybe his friendship with Ross wasn't dead after all.

He was lost in thought when Monica reentered the room, but he snapped back into the present when she did.

"Everything ok?" she asked, though she sensed it was, by the smile on his face.

"Yeah," he answered. "He, just, packed his bag and left. No drama whatsoever! Asked me if we were gonna hang tonight," he added, "Asked me to be sure you got home to your nana's ok, then just, left."

"Wow," she replied, somewhat surprised, then suggested, "Maybe your little chat last night did more good than you thought."

"Yeah, I guess so," he said, then shrugged before asking, "You wanna go do something? Movies? Coffee? Buy something cool for your new apartment?"

Her eyes lit up, her smile slowly growing as she asked, "Really?"

"Sure!" he exclaimed, then asked, "What does your new apartment need?"

She seemed to ponder that question for a moment. "Blender?" she finally said, asking like she was looking for his permission.

"Sure," he laughed, "That sounds doable. As long as I get the first margarita!" he added, smirking when she rolled her eyes.

"There are other things one uses a blender for, ya'know," she told him, then added, "And, besides, I'm not even old enough to buy liquor yet! I could maybe make you a virgin one, though."

"A virgin?" he shot back teasingly, "What the hell good does a virgin do me?" When the smile dropped from her face, he realized what he had said, and his heart lurched as he instantly and silently berated himself. "Shit, Monica, I'm sorry," he apologized. "That's **so** not what I meant! I mean, I know, it doesn't matter what I meant, cause, it was still a stupid thing to say, but, I really didn't mean it like that!"

"It's ok, Chandler," she said, essentially forgiving him, but he could hear the sadness in her tone, and see it clearly written all over her face, and he knew it was just words to appease him.

"No, it's not ok," he told her, then stepped up to her with purpose and pulled her into his arms. "That's **so** not how I feel, about that issue, or about **you**," he assured her. "I have **so** much respect for you, for not giving in to Kip, or any other guy that's just looking to get into your pants! It shows you have respect for yourself!" he added, "And that's a **good** thing!"

"Chandler," she sighed, "That's **not** why I'm still a virgin."

"It's not?" he asked, and when she shook her head, he shifted back to lock eyes with her. "Then, why?"

"I'm picky, is what it comes down to," she answered, then shrugged and looked away as she added, "I want what **you** were talking about. I want the guy to really like me, and I want to really like **him**! I want him to make it special. And touch me and caress me and do everything to me and for me that he should. I want my first time to be amazing, and I knew that wasn't going to happen with Roy, or Kip, or any of the other random guys who have propositioned me. I'm waiting," she added, then finally braved reinitiating eye contact.

"For?" he asked simply, swallowing hard to rid his throat of the lump that had formed. She had no way of knowing it, but he had already decided, in the six seconds that it took for her to answer, that if she said 'you', he was going to take her into his arms and make love to her, regardless of the consequences.

"Mr. Right," she answered. "Mr. Good Enough, just won't do," she added, then shrugged as she pushed out of his arms and headed for the door. "Is there a price limit, on the blender?" she called back to him, "Or can I go nuts?"

He took in a harsh breath, to settle his nerves, then forced a laugh and quipped, "How expensive could the most expensive blender be?"

"I think we're about to find out," she laughed, stepping into the hall, then glanced over her shoulder to see if Chandler was following, which he was.

"I guess we are," he returned with a smile, joining her, gesturing for her to lead the way as he lingered by the door to shut it.

When she was several steps away, he sighed, then shook his head as he whispered, "Damn."

"You comin or what?" she asked him, waving him over when he looked in her direction.

Smiling, he nodded, then moved to follow her.

Damn.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

How are we liking the angst? Ready to form a mob and lynch me yet? (grin) Trust me, it ain't over with yet!

This series is turning into far more than I ever thought it would. When I posted the first chapter, I meant it to be a standalone fic. When people showed interest in me continuing it, I really had no idea where to take it. My beta reader and I bounced around a few ideas, but I wanted to get 'Mengliad' finished before I really sat down to work on it. One night, as I was attempting to catch some sleep, a thousand ideas hit me, and now, here we are, and the story is really taking shape!

Seems people are enjoying it, and I'm certainly glad to hear **that**! Thanks for the reviews, guys!

The next chapter is written, and seven is, too, so, the faster I see reviews, the faster I post! Just, FYI (evil grin)

Oh, and the **next** chapter, is a little bit smaller than this one, but has a pretty awesome scene, right at the start! So, hopefully, that'll make up for the smaller size. At least, I think it's awesome. I've had this particular scene written since chapter two, but didn't know where to put it, so had it set aside. Found a place, top of chapter six, and I love it even more surrounded by the rest of the story! Hopefully, everyone agrees.

Chapter seven is pretty good, too. At least, that's what my beta reader says. She actually said, and I quote: "God, I have no freaking idea WHAT you think was weird about that chapter whatsoever. It was awesome. Really, really awesome. Like one of my favourite things you've ever written. I could name 50 good things about it, easy."

I said it seemed 'weird' to me, because… well, when you read it, you'll see. But, anyway… yeah, it's apparently really, really awesome. So, just something to look forward to. (smile)

Ok, reviews make my posting finger dance and click. It's entertaining, really. Wanna see? (smirk)

MTLBYAKY


	6. Chapter 6

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter Six**

**XXX**

--His cramping hand and stiff neck tried to tell him for how long he had been writing, but he was too engrossed in the story he was creating, to bother to check the time. Dropping the pen on the desk, he reread the last few lines he had jotted down as he massaged his hand, then cupped his neck to work out the kink as he glanced over at the alarm clock on Ross' bedside table. His eyes grew wide.

"Shit!"

Quickly grabbing his papers and tossing them almost carelessly into his desk drawer, he then jumped up and darted for the hall. He fished a quarter out of his pocket, along with the piece of scrap paper that had her phone number on it, then slid the coin into the payphone and referred back to the seven digits written as he dialed.

"Hello?"

A smile formed, just from hearing her voice. "Hey, Mon, it's me."

"Chandler, hi!"

She sounded so happy to hear from him, and his smile grew wider. "Look, I'm really sorry," he apologized, "But, time kinda got away from me. I'm gonna be a few minutes late. Like, fifteen or twenty, probably," he added, then laughed as he told her, "Don't worry, though! Mom is **always** fashionably late!"

"That's fine, actually, cause I'm just now getting dressed, so, that kinda works out ok for me, anyway."

"Oh. Ok. Good, then. So, what are you wearing?" He asked in reference to what she was planning to wear to dinner, but her answer took the innocent question and changed the entire direction of the conversation.

"A towel. I just got out of the shower."

The mental image of her, in nothing more than a towel, caused his breath to catch and his heart to lurch in his chest. Intelligent thought and reasoning became clouded, and without even realizing until it was too late, his mouth asked what his brain never would have given permission to, had it been functioning.

"Are you wet?" There were at least two ways the question could have been taken, and one of them was far too suggestive.

Adrenalin and arousal shot through her instantly. Common sense was telling her to stop it before it started. To answer in such a way, that ended it, before it got out of hand, but common sense couldn't match the allure of curiosity. She decided to play on, just to see what would happen.

"Whenever I hear your voice. What are **you** wearing?"

Mouthing the words, 'Oh, God' silently, he then answered, "A plain white T-shirt and baggy sweats. I'm grateful that they're baggy right now."

"I can picture it. Are you going commando?"

"Yeah," he whispered, then asked just as faintly, almost hesitantly, "Where are you right now?"

"My bedroom. Nana's out getting more bubble wrap. You?"

Glancing to his left and right first, to see if anyone was nearby, he answered, "In the hallway, on the payphone. Do something for me?" Her answer came instantly.

"Anything."

The death grip he held onto the phone with was starting to make his hand ache. He ignored it. "Drop the towel."

"It's dropped. Now what?"

There were a million reasons not to do it and only one reason to. The one won out. "Lie down on the bed." He could hear shuffling. She was actually doing it. His heart began to race.

"I'm there. Talk to me."

"Put your hand on your breast," he whispered. "Imagine it's **my** hand."

"I do, every time I touch myself."

"Oh, God," he breathed, shifting positions so that he was facing the wall, leaning his forehead against it and closing his eyes as he asked of her shakily, "Play with it for me. Roll it between your finger and thumb." She moaned softly, and his body grew weak at the sound. "Feel good?"

"Yes."

"Hey, Dude, you gonna be long-?"

Chandler didn't even turn to see who was disturbing him. "Fuck off! I'm on the phone!" Whoever it was, took understandable offense, but he couldn't have cared less.

"Shit! Sorry!"

"Sorry, Mon," Chandler apologized with a soft sigh, "That wasn't directed at you." She laughed in response.

"I know. I'm still with you. Are you still with me?"

"Yes," he answered, "I'm right here. Pinch it for me. Lightly." He could hear her breathing turn heavy, and he swallowed hard as he pictured her, doing what he knew she was. "Slide your hand down your body. Slowly. Feel your skin beneath your fingertips." The soft humming sound she made caused him to shudder.

"Where should I stop?"

"Don't stop," he told her. "Tell me when you're there. Tell me when your hand is between your legs." His mind played with the image as he waited for her next response.

"I'm there."

"Good," he whispered, then asked hoarsely, "How wet are you? Touch yourself. Tell me."

"I'm **so** wet."

Her words and tone caused him to shiver and burn, both at the same time. "God. Good. Start slow," he instructed. "Imagine it's me, rubbing you."

"I am. God, Chandler, it feels **so** good."

He brought his fisted hand up to press against the wall next to his head, stopping himself from reaching into his sweats, her breathy moan, wrapped around his name bringing a low groan to lodge in his throat.

"I'm right there with you," he told her, helping her to imagine it. "My hand, my fingers, taking you there. Are you close?"

"Yes."

"Let me hear you, Mon," he begged of her. "Let me hear how good it feels."

Her moans grew louder as she climbed towards release, and he bit his lip, almost to the point of making it bleed, to stop himself from moaning with her. Finally, she let out a strangled cry of relief, and Chandler hit the wall just once with the edge of his fisted hand at the sound of her pleasure.

An awkward silence took hold, allowing the reality of what had just happened to sink in. The guilt was suffocating. A line had been crossed. He'd given in to his desires, and risked everything, just for the chance to hear her moan and sigh while in the throes of climax. The sound would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Her labored breathing was slowly returning to normal, bringing the necessary conversation that much closer to inevitable. He was terrified.

Knowing she was embarrassed, sensing it somehow, he decided to start it, to save her from having to. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah," he lied, knowing she would hear the truth in his tone, but offering it anyway. "That probably wasn't the smartest thing to do." He scoffed silently at the understatement.

"I don't regret it."

He could hear it in her voice. She didn't. "Good. Don't. I don't want you to."

"Do you?"

"If you're ok, then no," he said, then sighed. "I don't want to hurt you, Mon. It was wrong to mess with your feelings like that, and I'm sorry."

"I encouraged it. I could have stopped it at any time, but, I didn't want to."

Nodding, he asked, "Do you want me to cancel with my mom tonight? Make it for a different night, maybe?"

"You don't want to go to dinner now?"

"No, it's not **that**," he assured her, "It's just, are you ok to?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"Cause I'm an asshole that deserves to be stood up," he answered, closing his eyes tightly, ashamedly.

"Maybe, but, at least you were the right kind of asshole this time."

He couldn't help but laugh, but he quickly regained seriousness. "Can the asshole ask a favor?"

"Of course."

"Let's not talk about this. I think it'll just make things worse," he explained. "The worse being, wanting what we can't have."

"You want to act like it didn't happen?"

Sighing at the sound of her confusion and pain, he answered, "I don't **want** to, but, I think we **have** to. I **know** we have to," he added.

"Ok."

"I really am sorry." The words weren't nearly enough, he knew, but they were the only ones he could find.

"Please, don't be. That was the best six minutes of my life."

They were the best of his, too. They were also the worst.

**XXX**

--He felt like he was in hell. His heart's desire to see her and his head's guilty insistence that he should avoid her was clashing, at war, battling and leaving him a casualty of his conflicting emotions. He couldn't face her. He couldn't **not** see her.

"Hell," he whispered, then forced his fisted hand to knock on the door. As soon as he heard the chain slide, he pulled a smile onto his face and stood a little taller.

"Chandler!" Nana greeted him cheerfully, waving him in instantly. "Look at you! All cleaned up and looking sharp!"

Dropping his gaze out of embarrassment, he nodded slight, politely, then stepped inside. "Thanks. Is, um, Monica ready?" he asked, stammering, the quick glance around the apartment showing her not to be in the room.

"Oh, you know us gals," Nana laughed, "Hours and hours, primping and beautifying. Not that our little Harmonica needs to, right?" she added with a wink, to which he blushed in response.

"No, Ma'am," he replied, stuffing his hands in his pockets, smirking nervously as he stared down at his feet.

"Ah, ah," Nana scolded him, "I told you before, none of that ma'am stuff!"

"Right. Sorry," he apologized, then startled and looked up when he heard the bathroom door open.

How could someone forget how to breathe? He didn't know, but he suddenly had.

"I thought I heard your voice!" Monica chirped, heading straight for him, her smile instantly causing his heart to race.

"You look amazing," he whispered, swallowing hard, struggling to keep his eyes from wandering. He wanted to drink in her beauty, gaze at every inch of her, slowly, but with her nana standing inches away, and with what had happened earlier, on the phone, he knew he couldn't.

"So do you," she replied brightly, then asked with an arched eyebrow, "I thought you only owned the one suit?"

"I lied," he said, grinning when she laughed, his adrenalin finally easing slightly.

"Is this ok, for where we're going?" she asked, then glanced down at herself, brushing off imaginary imperfections nervously.

"It's perfect," he whispered, nodding when she looked up at him again.

"I gave Monica a key," Nana announced, stepping up and ushering them both towards the door, "So, no need to worry about the time, bringing her back."

"It won't be too late," Chandler promised, but Nana just scoffed in response.

"No need to worry," she repeated, then stated, with an obvious hidden meaning, "You're both adults, right? Old enough to decide for yourselves, what you want… and **who**," she added with a smirk.

"Nana," Monica sighed, it sounding almost like a warning, but her grandmother just laughed.

"Ok, ok," she said, "I'm done embarrassing the two of you for tonight. Just, go out and have fun," she suggested as they stepped out into the hall, "And don't let anything or any**one** spoil it."

Before either of them could respond, before they were even fully turned around to face her again, Nana gave a little wave and a smile, then shut the door on them.

"Well, that wasn't **at all** awkward," Monica quipped sarcastically, scoffing as she rolled her eyes and looked away.

"Yeah," he laughed, "But, she's cool."

"Yeah," she agreed. "She is."

The tension was excruciating, but even so, he didn't want to be anywhere else in the world. The carelessly tossed candy wrapper nearby became of the utmost importance.

"Are- Are you- Um, how are you?" he asked, stammering, unsure of how to even approach the simple question.

When the answer didn't come after several seconds, he glanced over, only to find her staring at him, with a slight reassuring smile on her face. Turning towards him, stepping closer, she then placed her hand on his cheek, and he leaned into her touch, increasing the contact.

"Chandler," she whispered, "I'm fine, ok?"

Nodding with a long, heavy blink, he whispered back, "Then, we should get going."

Lingering for a moment longer, she finally dropped her hand, then took a step down the hall and towards the stairs. "I hope your mom likes me," she said with a sigh, smiling when she felt him reach for her hand.

"She already does," he assured her. "She wouldn't have asked you to dinner, if she didn't."

"Ross has met her?" she asked curiously, remembering he had said so the night before.

"Yeah," he answered.

"And, he didn't like her?" she asked.

Shrugging, he said, "I guess he kinda did, but, ya'know, she kinda weirded him out a little."

"How so?" she asked with a confused scowl.

"She sorta made a pass at him," he answered, his steps towards the lobby doors abruptly hindered when she stopped dead in her tracks.

"Are you serious?" she asked when he turned to face her, shocked, to which he nodded and sighed.

"Mom is, well, sexually aggressive," he explained, then rolled his eyes and sighed again. "Why do you think I'm dreading this?" he asked, somewhat rhetorically, then gave her hand a tug and continued towards the exit.

"You think she's gonna make a pass at **me**?" she asked, slight worry in her tone, but he shook his head in answer.

"No," he said, "But, God only knows what kind of horribly inappropriate things she'll have to say. I don't even want to imagine," he added, almost to himself, then dropped her hand and moved to the curb to hail a cab.

She couldn't imagine, either, but, she didn't know Chandler's mom. What kind of horrible things could she possibly say?

**XXX**

--Intimidated. That was the only word Monica could come up with, to describe what she was feeling. The restaurant Chandler's mom chose was beyond elegant. Beyond upscale. She instantly felt like she didn't belong.

When he heard her gasp as they entered, and felt her hand tighten around his, Chandler knew what she was thinking. What she was feeling. Her whole body seemed to grow rigid with it.

"You're better than everyone in here," he whispered, then gently squeezed her hand, before leading her over to the empty chairs, away from the door and bustle of activity. "**Always** fashionably late," he muttered, referring to his mom, then chuckled as he gestured for Monica to sit.

"This place makes Javu's look like an off-road diner," she whispered, and he smirked in response as he took a seat beside her.

"Javu's was elegant," he replied, "This place is just excessively pretentious."

Sighing in agreement, and also to settle her nerves, she asked, "How late do you think she'll be?"

"Who knows," he laughed softly. "She usually shows whenever she damn well feels like it."

"No wonder she has to buy her way into places," she mused, "Since she doesn't show up on time for her reservations."

"She doesn't bother to **make** reservations," he scoffed, then laughed again, mostly to himself, before leaning forward and resting his elbows on his thighs.

It took her several long seconds, and effort to gather her courage, before she finally suggested what she already knew he was going to say no to. "Chandler," she whispered, "I think we should talk about what happened."

Sighing, he told her, "I don't think that's such a good idea."

"I know," she said, "But, I want to." Shifting slightly in her seat, her stance changed as she mentally prepared herself, determined to have the discussion with or without his cooperation.

Noticing her movement, sensing what was about to happen, he glanced over at her with a worried expression. "Here?" he asked.

Shrugging, she answered, "We have time to kill."

"We're in **public**," he reminded her, and she sighed as she dropped her gaze to her lap.

"I'm not planning on making a scene," she muttered, almost defensively.

"I wasn't suggesting you would," he assured her. "I just don't want people overhearing our business."

Virtually ignoring his excuse, and obvious attempt to avoid the conversation, she stated, as if fact, "You're feeling guilty. I know you are," she added, sighing when he only nodded in answer. "I wish you wouldn't," she whispered sadly.

"How can I **not**?" he asked, his gaze fixed on his clasped hands in front of him.

"You didn't do anything wrong," she insisted, sighing again when he scoffed. "We weren't even in the same room together, Chandler!"

"I know that," he said to his hands, "But that still doesn't make it right."

"Chandler," she sighed, "We didn't break Ross' precious rules, ok? We didn't **do** anything! We were just… talking."

"Fine line, Monica, and you know it."

"Maybe," she conceded, "But I'm sick of walking the line he's drawn for us."

"I am, too," he admitted, "But what other choice do we have?"

"We have choices, Chandler," she said with slight exasperation, "You're just not comfortable with the consequences of them."

"You're right," he agreed, trying to sound firm, "I'm not."

"So," she sighed in defeat, "That leaves us walking a line neither one of us wants to be walking."

"Unfortunately," he sighed in return.

Nodding, she let several seconds tick by, wanting to create space between what he had last said, and what she was about to ask of him. "Chandler, look at me."

Finally pulling his gaze away from his tightly clasped hands, he slowly lifted his eyes to lock with hers. At first, she only stared back at him, intent on making her feelings known, and perfectly clear, but the longer she held him in limbo, the more anxious he seemed to become.

"Don't feel guilty," she said, and while it was worded like a demand, it sounded more like a plea. "You didn't do anything wrong, and you **didn't** break your promise to Ross."

Sitting back in his seat, shifting and turning to face her, he told her, "I don't feel guilty because I think I broke my promise to Ross. I'm feeling guilty, because I messed with your emotions, and fucked up my head in the process."

Scowling in confusion, she asked, "How did it fuck up your head?"

There was no way he could look at her while admitting it. Closing his eyes tightly, he whispered, "Hearing you… like that… I've never been **so** turned on in all my life."

She couldn't stop the small smile from inching onto her face. "Did you… **do** anything about it?" she asked, to which he took in a shaky breath, then nodded. "Did you think of **me**, when you did?"

He could have lied, but he didn't want to. He wanted her to know. "Yes," he answered, then immediately asked, "Do you really think of **me**, when you… do that?"

The feel of her hand on his leg startled him, and he slowly opened his eyes in response, though it took several tense moments for him to finally meet hers. His heart lurched as he guessed the answer.

"Since the day I met you," she answered honestly.

Surprised, not only by her truthfulness, but by the revelation as well, he asked, "For that long? You've liked me for **that** long?"

Nodding, she asked, "How long for you?"

"I don't want to answer that question," he told her guiltily. "It'll seem shallow, after what you just said."

"It won't," she assured him. "I think I know the answer, anyway," she added, then smiled at him in encouragement for him to tell her.

Sighing, reluctant to admit it, he looked away as he whispered, "The day Ross caught us."

"I kinda figured," she said with a smirk, but then the slight smile dissipated as she added, "That's when **I** knew, that I wanted you to be my first."

"Fuck," he whispered, sighing heavily.

"Don't be mad," she asked of him, mistaking his reaction for anger.

"I'm not," he told her, then took in a deep breath, exhaling slowly before plastering a creepy smile on his face and muttering through clenched teeth, "My mom's here. Smile," he told her, "She can spot angst a mile away. Mom!" he called out, then pushed off his seat to greet her. "Hi! Finally, you made it! Shit, I thought we got stood up or something!"

Standing at his prompt, Monica forced a smile, then wrapped her arms defensively and nervously around herself as she watched the blonde woman approach.

"Chandler! Darling!" Nora oozed, stepping up and giving Chandler a kiss on each cheek, "Handsome as ever!"

"Thanks, Mom," he muttered with low key sarcasm. "You're looking well," he added, trying to ignore the inappropriate amount of cleavage she was showing.

"I have a personal trainer now," she replied, giving a short wave through the air, like she was dismissing her own statement.

Having no idea what to say to that, he said simply, with only a slight amount of hesitance, "That's… great."

"Armani suit, very nice," Nora praised him, but then she fingered a lock of hair just behind his ear and said with a mildly disapproving tone, "Hair's a little too long. Although," she added, "It **does** look better than that ridiculous _Flock Of Birds_ hairstyle thing."

"_Flock Of Seagulls_, Mom," he corrected with a sigh and a roll of his eyes, then he waved Monica over, smiling again as he began formal introductions. "Mom, this is Monica Geller. Monica, this is my mom, Nora Bing."

With an uncomfortable but polite smile, Monica went to extend her hand, but before she could lift it more than a few inches, Nora stepped up, took her by the shoulders, and kissed each cheek.

"Well, aren't you just **precious**!" Nora exclaimed, continuing to grip Monica's shoulders, looking her up and down like she was inspecting her. "Your children would be **gorgeous**," she said to Chandler, glancing at him only briefly before shifting her eyes over to Monica's.

To say Monica was shocked would have been putting it mildly.

Seeing her discomfort, Chandler inched closer to Monica protectively. "Mother, don't," he warned, and while his tone was mostly respectful, there was a definite edge to it.

Taking the not-so-subtle hint, Nora dropped her hands to her sides, but only smiled wider as she asked of her son, "Darling, why don't you go see about getting us a table, while Monica and I get better acquainted."

His eyes narrowed, almost glaring, then pointedly told her, "Behave," before slipping his hand into his pocket and walking away towards the maître d'.

Monica felt like she had just been thrown to the wolves. All that Chandler had ever said or implied about his mother was starting to make sense, and she had only been in the woman's presence five minutes.

"So, tell me," Nora asked, gaining Monica's distracted attention, "How long have you known Chandler?"

"Um, about as long as Ross has," she answered, trying not to sound nervous. Predators can smell fear, right?

"He seems quite fond of you."

It wasn't a question, but Monica could tell she was waiting for her to respond. Problem was, she didn't know how to. Nothing to say, and a million words assaulted her. Eventually, she blurted out the ones that kept coming back to mind. "I'm quite fond of him, too."

"Yes, I can tell," Nora replied, her smile growing wider, taking on an almost wicked quality. "He'd make an excellent boyfriend," she added, and Monica's heart instantly climbed into her throat.

If she wasn't sure before, she was in that moment. Chandler's mom was trying to weasel details out of her, to determine if they were dating. Desperate for Chandler to rescue her, she glanced over her shoulder, hoping to find him on his way back to her, but he was still talking to the maître d', making escape impossible.

"He'll be right back, Dear," Nora assured her, then moved on from the previous comment, but the following one was worse than the last. "With the kind of money he's willing to spend with this apartment, one would just assume you two were dating."

Fidgeting, Monica replied, "We're not dating."

"So he's said," Nora countered, "But, you see, Dear, Chandler doesn't always tell his mother about the important things going on in his life."

"He'd probably tell you," Monica offered anxiously, "If we **were** dating."

Humming in response, Nora then asked, "Any idea, why he made a one thousand dollar withdrawal on Friday?" When Monica gasped, and physically startled, Nora laughed. "Oh, don't worry, Dear," she soothed, "He's not in any trouble. It's **his** money, and he can spend it as he cares to, I just like to be kept informed, when larger sums are spent. Keep an eye on him, so to speak. Help keep him out of trouble," she added with a smirk.

Flustered, her guard down, Monica blurted out, "Well, he didn't spend it on anything **bad**! He, just, took me out to dinner!"

"A thousand dollars for a date," Nora said with a knowing lilt, "He must be more than just fond of you."

"No, no, Mrs. Bing, it wasn't a **date**!" Monica explained hastily. "He just took me out cause I won the bet!"

"Bet, Dear?" she asked. "And, what bet would that be?"

"I bet Chandler that his story would get an 'A', and it did! So, he took me out to dinner!"

"Must have been a very expensive restaurant."

"Well, it kinda was," Monica admitted, "But, there was also the champagne, and the limo--" She stopped herself abruptly, when she realized what she was saying, her eyes wide, like she was staring petrified at an oncoming train. She almost wished she was.

Nora didn't miss a beat. "That sounds like a fun evening. Sex in the back of a limo can be very exciting."

Feeling the flush of embarrassment hit her face, Monica quickly brought her hands to her cheeks in an attempt to hide it. That action, along with her wide eyes and open mouth, told Chandler the story of what had happened. Even without knowing the details, he was livid.

"Mother!" he snipped, "What did you do?"

"Nothing," she insisted, her tone dripping innocence, "We were just having a little chat. Weren't we, Monica?"

Trapped between mother and son, wanting to deter a fight from happening, Monica backed Nora. "She, just, surprised me, is all, Chandler," she stammered, dropping her hands and offering a slight strained smile, but he could tell that wasn't the full truth.

He shifted positions, moving to stand with his back to his mother, facing Monica, then asked in a discreet whisper, "What did she say to you?"

"It was nothing, really," Monica told him, chuckling, like that would support and prove her stance. "She, just, said she likes having sex in the back of limos," she added, then avoided his gaze, certain that the longer she kept it, the more she would reveal.

"Were you able to arrange for our table, Darling?"

His attention lingered on Monica for several moments, even after his mother asked the question. "They said it'll be about ten minutes," he finally answered, then turned away from Monica and towards her. "I asked you to behave," he reminded, calmly, but with a tone that clearly showed his unhappiness.

"I wasn't trying to embarrass her, Darling, honest," she oozed, then patted his chest and quickly moved off the subject. "So, tell me about this little story of yours, that caused all this hate and discontent in the first place."

"There's not much to tell," Chandler sighed. "Guy meets girl, they fall in love, her stepfather hates him, they can't be together, angst and sexual tension, then, in the end, guy whisks girl away."

"And they live happily ever after," Nora added, her smile growing.

"It's implied, yeah," Chandler somewhat muttered, almost under his breath.

"Now, why would Ross assume it was about the two of you, with **him** as the overbearing stepfather?" she asked nosily, which Chandler instantly recognized as prying.

"Let's just say he has some weird issues right now," he answered vaguely, "And we'll leave it at that."

"Fine, fine," she said with a dismissive wave of her hand, then immediately asked, "So, Darling, are you seeing anyone special?"

Sighing, already one hundred percent exasperated with her, and they hadn't even been seated yet, he answered, "No, Mom. Stop pushing," he added, then threw a semi-glare at her before shifting his gaze to patrons in the distance.

"I'm not pushing, Darling," she insisted, to which he scoffed and reinitiated eye contact.

"Then why are your fingerprints all over my back?" he asked, part sarcastic, part irritated.

Waving dismissively once again, completely unperturbed, she announced, "You're always so angry! Lighten up! You'll live longer!"

"Mr. Bing, Sir," the maître d' interrupted, "Your table is ready."

They were his four most favorite words in the entire English language, at that moment. The sooner they were seated, the faster it would all be over with.

**XXX**

--"Fuck!" Chandler screamed at the ceiling of the cab, to which Monica laughed and threw her head back against the seat.

"That was the strangest two hours of my life!" she exclaimed, glancing at him briefly before returning her attention to the dingy metal above them.

"Two hours, twelve minutes, and forty-seven seconds," he corrected, sighing as he inched closer to her, adopting the same position she had.

"Is she always so… manipulative?" she asked cautiously, trying to find the right word, though she wasn't so sure she chose it.

"What do you mean?" he asked in return, then they both turned their heads only to face each other.

"She had me flustered and spilling my guts, within a minute of when you had walked away!" she answered, laughing when he rolled his eyes.

"I thought there was more to that," he said with a sigh. "What **really** happened?" he asked, reaching for her hand and holding it in support and sympathy of what she had gone through.

"She kept asking- not even **asking**, really! Just, kept saying all this stuff, like she was trying to get me to admit that we were a couple! And then, God, I don't even remember what she even said! But I, just, started blabbing, about how you pulled the money on Friday so that you could take me out, cause of the bet, and then I let it slip, that we had champagne, and that you had rented the limo--"

"So, **that's** why she made the 'sex in the back of limos' comment," he semi-interrupted, sighing when she nodded. "I'm **so** sorry," he apologized for his mother. "The woman has **no** filter," he added, smirking when she laughed.

"When you said it was going to be an experience, I just assumed you meant, that we would be listening to 'when Chandler was a baby' stories!"

"Yeah, well," he muttered sarcastically, "You'd get more of **those**, by talking to the various nannies I've had."

Her smile dropped, a warm, kind expression taking its place as she asked, "Your childhood was kinda fucked up, wasn't it?"

"Kinda ain't the half of it," he answered, then looked back up at the ceiling. "I really don't want to talk about it," he asked of her, and she nodded as she shifted her eyes up as well.

"You don't have to," she told him, then added, "Maybe someday?"

"Yeah," he whispered, then edged closer to her so that his head was in slight contact with hers.

"You wanna come up and hang with me for a bit, before you go back?" she asked. "Nana will probably be asleep. And, I know you have classes tomorrow, and I do, too, but, it's not **real** late yet--"

"Monica," he cut her off, smirking at her nervous babblings, "Chill. Sure I'll come up."

Her smile grew wider as she allowed her eyes to slowly drift closed. The night hadn't been a total disaster. Shortly after they had been seated, as she sat rigid and feeling completely out of her element, Chandler's knee brushed against hers. At first, she thought it was innocent, or unintentional, but then he gave her a look, discreetly, and she realized it was on purpose. He had offered her the only physical contact he could chance, while his mom sat across from them, to help her through the unnerving and relentless questions and comments, in an attempt to ease her anxieties before she exploded under the pressure.

Nora could have stripped naked and danced on the table, and Monica probably wouldn't have even flinched. The simple touch of his leg against hers had retained her full attention, for the majority of the evening. She couldn't remember a fraction of what was said, or even what answers she had given to questions posed. The only thing her brain could wrap around, was the gentle friction he created against her, and the memory of the phone call they'd had before dinner.

The husky tone of his voice, his erotic words, urging her to pleasure herself, imagining it was his hands, taking her to that place of perfect bliss; she would never forget a single moment of it, for as long as she lived. She had a feeling, that after his guilt subsided, Chandler would feel the same way. At least, she hoped he would.

**XXX**

--"Wow, looks like Nana got a lot of packing accomplished," Chandler mentioned casually as they entered the apartment, a new stack of boxes set neatly aside showing that to be true, and Monica laughed softly in response, as she led the way into the livingroom and towards the couch.

"Nana and I are a lot alike," she said, in explanation of her reaction, then added as they both took a seat, "Highly organized, never put anything off to the last minute if you can help it, and we both **love** to pack."

"Well," he quipped, "Bubble wrap **is** fun to play with."

Laughing, she told him, "If we have any left, it's all yours."

"Cool," he replied, then laughed as well. "So," he asked as he slipped his arm around her, "Is Nana leaving the furniture? Or do you need to get some?"

"She's leaving most of it," she answered, then shrugged as she added, "Wouldn't mind getting a new bed, though. I think **hers** is about a million years old."

"Ross will love it then," he quipped, "Since he seems to be totally into all that, million years old fossils and crap."

"Yeah," she laughed, then asked, "How'd it go with him today?"

"Good, actually," he answered brightly. "He came back from Carol's in a good mood, so, that helped, I'm sure. But, we just, hung out, smoked a bowl, debated about pizza toppings and the best flavor of Poptarts, then he took off to the library and I got a ton of writing done."

"New writing assignment?" she asked, but he just shrugged in answer.

"Can I ask you a question, that I probably shouldn't be asking you?"

The whispered tone he'd used gave her a strong inkling as to what the question was. Or, at least the topic. "Sure," she answered, then tensed slightly when he did.

"Did you mean it, when you said before, that you wanted me to be… your first?"

There wasn't a single inch of her that didn't ignite and catch fire. She snuggled up closer to him, but kept her hands clasped and resting against his side as she whispered, "Yes, I meant it."

"God, Monica," he sighed shakily, "Do you have any idea, how flattering that is?"

Shrugging, she said, "I thought you were mad at me, for saying it."

"Trust me, I wasn't," he assured her. "It's, just, my mom happened to walk in."

"Yeah," she whispered, then, after a brief pause, asked, "Can I ask **you** a question?"

"Sure," he answered.

Hearing the slight hesitation in his tone, she wondered briefly if she should ask it at all, but she was dying to know, so she pushed herself to do it, before she lost her nerve.

"Do you think, on some level… you know, subconsciously or whatever, that that story you wrote, is about us?"

"I didn't think so at the time," he answered, "But **now**… I don't know. Maybe."

"Do you ever plan to whisk me away?" she asked carefully, "So that **we** can have a happily ever after?"

"Ross isn't evil, Mon," he answered with a sigh. "You'd miss him, and you know it."

"Yeah," she agreed, "You're probably right. But, have you ever stopped and wondered," she asked, "Why he has such a big issue with this? I mean, he didn't care that I was dating Kip. Or Roy. And he **hated** both of them! He **likes** you! Yet, I'm not allowed to date you? Why?"

"I don't know why," he admitted, "I just know, he has some kind of major problem with it."

"You never asked him?"

"No," he answered, "And, please, don't ask me to. We're **finally** getting back to where we were," he explained, "And I don't want to mess with that."

"If **I** asked him, do you think it would have the same negative effect?"

"Probably," he answered, sighing.

"Ok," she conceded, "I won't ask him then."

"Thank you," he whispered, then kissed her hair to show his gratitude.

"Every time your lips touch me, anywhere on my body, every part of me aches for more."

The want and pain in her tone made his heart hurt to the very core. "I'll stop then," he choked out, his eyes squeezing tightly shut when he felt her shake her head against him.

"Please, don't," she asked of him. "Don't take away the only thing we're allowed," she added.

"Oh, God," he breathed, "I'm such a bastard."

"No you're not," she told him, asking, "Why would you say that?"

"Because," he answered, "I want to kiss you **so** bad right now, that I'm actually considering it, consequences be damned."

"I want you to," she whispered, struggling to breathe. "Ross doesn't have to know."

"Ross isn't who I'm worried about," he said with a guilty sigh. "I'm worried about **you**."

"What do you mean?" she asked, confused.

"If I kiss you, it'll only make all this harder. We can't take the next step. We can't **be** together. We can't date. Kissing you, would be like getting that first lick of the icecream cone, just to have the thing fall to the ground."

When she laughed, a wide grin spread across his face. "That was the cutest, most heartwrenching metaphor I think I've ever heard."

"Everything about this whole situation is heartwrenching," he sighed, his smile fading. "Maybe I should go," he suggested, tightening his grip around her in a show of comfort, "Before we both do something we're just going to regret." When he felt her nod, he sighed again, then kissed her hair quickly and released her from his hold.

She shifted away, staring at the floor as he stood, then forced her weak body up off the couch to follow him to the door.

"Ross and I are going to go with you, back to your parents' place, when you go to pick up your stuff," he said as he stepped out into the hall. "Just let us know when you want to go," he added, and she nodded.

"Thanks," she whispered, then added with a steadier voice, "This weekend, maybe?"

"Sure," he agreed, then scoffed and dropped his gaze, watching his foot's movement as he kicked at the ground. "If you wanna come hang after class tomorrow, you can," he offered. "We can smoke a bowl and get Chinese food or something," he added as he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers, but she was avoiding his as well.

"Yeah, that sounds good," she replied; he could hear the sadness, and it made him want to throw himself in front of a bus. Hell wasn't a strong enough word.

"K, then," he said, trying to sound upbeat but failing miserably, "See'ya tomorrow."

Without waiting for her response, or for her to even say goodbye, he started down the hall towards the stairs. He heard her close the door by the time he reached them, but was only down the first three when he stopped dead in his tracks.

"Fuck," he whispered to himself, then ascended the few steps to the landing again and marched back towards the apartment.

Steadying himself with a deep breath, he knocked softly on the door, then took in another shaky one when he heard the chain slide. The look of surprise on her face, coupled with the tears she had finally allowed to fall once he had walked away almost made him back out. Almost.

"Fuck it," he whispered, then stepped forward, raked his hand into her hair, and pulled her to him.

Their lips met softly but firmly, the kiss slow to start, but soon it turned frantic, hands and arms wrapping and entangling, want and desire winning out over Ross' stupid issues and rules.

"This is the last time we can allow this," he panted, when he broke the kiss just long enough to catch his breath, and she nodded, as if in agreement, before throwing herself back at him, her lips crashing against his in desperate need.

Beautiful reality and a dream come true, tender but passionate, delicate but forceful, starving but sated… agonizingly perfect.

"Starting tomorrow, we walk the line," he insisted breathlessly, then returned his lips to hers as quickly as they had left them, but gently, easing the kiss, and themselves away from crossing the line any further.

The atmosphere changed as the kiss simplified, and they both knew the moment of weakness that allowed for the brief guilty pleasure was over.

"I'll be good," she promised, leaning heavily into him when he shifted to rest his forehead against hers.

"God," he sighed, "This has been a bad day in the best way."

Laughing softly, a slight smile inching onto his face when she did, she whispered, "You always know just what to say."

"Always," he laughed, then moved away, staring back at her for a long moment before whispering, "I'll see'ya tomorrow, k?"

Nodding, also smiling, she said, "I won't be square."

He laughed again, then kissed her lips briefly and tenderly before quickly turning and heading for the stairs.

His smile grew as he descended, chuckling softly to himself once on the lobby floor. It was also the best day in the worst way.

Tomorrow was another day. Tonight, he was going to allow himself to remember and cherish every single microsecond of what had just happened. He owed that to himself. Above all else, he owed it to Monica. At least tonight, she would go to sleep happy.

**To be continued**

Author's note:

Ok, lots of people wanting to know what Ross' problem is. Yeah, um, you're not really going to know, till the last chapter. Sorry.

Lovin all the reviews, guys! Keep 'em comin, k? Quicker I see 'em, quicker I post.

Have some ideas for an epilogue chapter, so, if we get to the end, and you're interested in seeing one, let me know. Pretty sure this will be ten chapters, by the way. Just FYI. I'll let you know if that changes.

Chapter eight is half done, but, I think it may need some tweaking and/or fine tuning. Seems a little 'off' to me. I should have it worked out fairly quickly though, so, no worries.

You know what I love? Cheesecake. They sell the filling in these little tubs, and, instead of making an **actual** cheesecake out of the stuff, I just put a blop in a bowl and scoop it up with graham crackers. Yep. Love that stuff. Pointless info, I know, but, oh well.

Ok, so, chapter seven is waiting on **you** to review! Clicky, clicky, please. (smile)

MTLBYAKY


	7. Chapter 7

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter Seven**

**XXX**

--It was killing him, not to be able to hold her, comfort her, help her through the nervous fear and sadness she was obviously feeling. He didn't dare risk it though. Ross was sitting in the front seat of the cab, glancing back periodically to check on his sister's state, interjecting words of support and offering possible solutions to potential theoretical problems. Chandler knew if he were to put his arm around her, even innocently, even with the situation as it was, that Ross would get weird. Things were finally starting to even out, within their friendship, and he didn't dare chance a relapse.

At least Monica's nana was holding her. He just wished it was him.

"We're going to be with you the **entire** time, Sweetie, ok?" Nana soothed. "Please, don't worry."

"We're not gonna let her talk shit on you, ok?" Chandler interjected, glancing to see that Ross' eyes were faced forward before touching her knee softly but briefly. He quickly snatched it away when Ross turned back around.

"And Dad already said, everything is packed, so, it'll be a quick in and out kind of thing," Ross contributed, to which Monica nodded slight and sadly.

"I wish she didn't have to be there," Monica sniffled, her head resting on her nana's shoulder.

"Hell, if you're gonna be wishing for stuff, why not just wish for her to not be a bitch!" Chandler quipped, but he quickly dropped his smile. "Sorry, Nana," he apologized, mostly for the foul language, but Nana just scoffed and shook her head, releasing him from any guilt.

The cab turned onto the street, and Monica groaned as it did, knowing within a few minutes, she would be faced with hatred and nasty words. She was dreading seeing her with every fiber of her being. Her brother and Chandler had suggested they just go in her place, but they didn't know what all belonged to her, or what might be missing from the boxes and bags her mother had carelessly packed during her fit to erase her daughter from the house's memory. She needed to go. She was just grateful she had the three people with her she loved the most.

The house seemed empty at first, when they entered and made their way into the livingroom, but within seconds, Monica and Ross' father appeared from out of the kitchen, a tight sympathetic smile on his face as he immediately approached his daughter.

"Hey, Pumpkin," Jack sighed, pulling her into a hug, "How are you holding up?"

"I'm ok, Dad," she sighed in return, glancing over his shoulder before asking nervously, "Where's Mom?"

"In the garage," he answered with another heavy sigh. "She's locating the boxes with your baby books and pictures."

"So," Monica muttered sadly, new tears falling as she pushed out of her father's arms, "She's basically decided, that I don't exist."

"She's just angry, Pumpkin," he answered, weakly defending the woman he called wife. "She's just in one of her fits. She'll get over it," he added, then turned his attention to the rest of the people in his livingroom. "Hey, Son," he said to Ross, then moved towards his mother. "Hi, Mom. How's the packing coming along?" he asked, then gently wrapped his arms around her in a brief hug.

"Already finished," Nana answered. "Monica has been an amazing help."

"Hey, Chandler," Jack greeted him, extending his hand. "How are you?"

"Fine, Sir," Chandler returned politely, then added, "Under the circumstances."

"Yeah," Jack sighed. "I want you to know," he told him, "This isn't about you. What led to it had your name in it, but, it isn't about you."

"Thank you, Sir," Chandler said gratefully, with a nod, but the supportive atmosphere that had been cultivated was instantly shattered, when the condescending voice rang out from the doorway into the kitchen.

"Oh, of course! All gathering together with a common interest in hating me!"

"Judy," Jack sighed, taking just a few steps towards her, "You said you weren't going to do this."

Judy just scoffed, then trained her glare on Chandler. "And **of course** you came! Haven't you caused enough trouble?"

"This isn't about Chandler, Mom, and you know it," Monica announced, defending him. "The story wasn't even about us, and I **know** Ross explained that to you!"

"No, it's not about that!" Judy shot back. "After all I've done for you! For you to sit there and call me **hateful**!"

"Yeah," Monica returned sarcastically, "Cause all **this** is real loving, Mom."

"You said that to me **before** I kicked you out!" Judy exclaimed.

"Cause you called me a **bitch**!" Monica snapped, shaking from the confrontation.

"This isn't doing anyone any good," Nana spoke up, slipping her arm around Monica to help settle her down.

"And why are **you** here?" Judy asked Nana seethingly. "Shouldn't you be in Florida?"

"Monday," she answered simply, calmly, then suggested, "Ross, Jack, why don't you go with Judy to the garage and get her boxes, and Monica, Chandler, and I will go collect things in her room."

Everyone agreed, though Judy did so with an irritated sigh and mumbled words of animosity, then the six of them split up into groups of three and headed towards their tasks.

The moment Monica entered her room, Chandler directly behind her, she turned and threw herself into his arms. Nana patted her granddaughter's back as she slipped past, but otherwise moved through towards the bags and boxes scattered about without interfering.

"God, why does she hate me?" she asked with a heavy, shaky sigh. "What did I **do**?"

"You didn't **do** anything," he soothed, pulling her tightly to him and stroking her hair. "She's not right in the head, Mon, ok? You didn't do anything," he repeated, then sighed as he placed a soft kiss in her hair.

"I'm ok," she muttered, leaving his arms and glancing around her former room. "Let's just get this over with."

**X**

--The rental truck Jack acquired was bigger than needed, but it was better than trying to cram all her stuff into a taxi. Or two taxis.

"This is just a little something, to help for a while," Jack told Monica, extending an envelope towards her as everyone gathered around the moving truck. "And I'll try to throw a few bucks your way, whenever I can, ok, Pumpkin?"

"Thanks Dad," she whispered, accepting it, then tucking it into her pocket. "I'm sorry about all this," she added, then started to cry as he gathered her into his arms.

"It's not your fault," he assured her. "Kids and parents fight sometimes. Your mom just isn't handling it right."

"Yeah," she muttered in agreement, shifting away and composing herself as she asked, "Does she know the details, about how I can afford Nana's place?"

"She knows," Jack sighed. "And, don't worry about school," he added. "I won **that** battle, at least."

Monica laughed, though shortly and slightly, then told him, "Don't feel guilty, Dad. I know you did your best. It's gonna work out better this way, anyway," she added, then forced a reassuring smile to her face. "I just feel bad for **you**! You're stuck in the house with her, **alone**!"

Jack laughed, as did everyone, and then he quipped, "Well, at least I can escape her for a few hours, while at work!"

"Never thought you'd be grateful for the day to day grind, eh, Sir?" Chandler interjected, and Jack nodded as he laughed again.

"My saving grace," Jack quipped, "And, luckily, retirement is a long way off!"

"Ok, who's gonna drive the monster truck?" Nana chimed in, wrapping up the goodbyes.

"I've never driven anything that big before," Ross stated, with an almost-concerned tone.

"Well, the chauffer used to let me drive the limo sometimes," Chandler informed, indirectly offering himself to the task. "This is sure **taller**, but definitely not any **longer**."

"Wonderful!" Nana chirped. "Monica, you go with Chandler. Ross, you and I will take a taxi and meet up with them back at the apartment, k, Dear?"

Ross agreed easily, which surprised Monica and Chandler, but since he did, they weren't interested in waiting around for him to rethink things.

"We'll see you over there, then," Chandler said, then extended his hand towards Jack. "Thank you, Sir, for, you know, the school thing."

"It's the least I could do," he returned dismissively, then added with all sincerity, "Thank your mom for me. For her generosity. We wouldn't be able to make this work, without her."

"I will, Sir," he returned with nod, then cleared his throat nervously as he relieved the keys to the truck from his hand. "Ready, Mon?" he asked her, and she nodded as she moved to the passenger side.

"You're not gonna kill us, are you?" she quipped, referring to his ability to drive the larger-than-most vehicle, and he laughed in response.

"Not today," he quipped back, then discreetly winked at her before rounding the front and climbing into his seat. He put the key in the ignition, turned the engine over, threw it into drive, but then hesitated. "You ok?" he asked, his gaze locked on the steering wheel.

"I will be," she answered. "Good and bad days," she added, and he nodded.

"Absolutely," he agreed softly, then pulled away from the curb.

"Thanks for today," she near-whispered, after only a few moments of driving in silence. "You know, for helping, and for coming with," she added.

"It's not a problem," he returned with a smile and a glance in her direction. "I wasn't ok with you having to face her **at all**, let alone without help."

Sighing, she said, "It actually coulda been worse. She pretty much left us alone, after that blow up in the livingroom."

"Except for when she called you an ungrateful bitch, as we were leaving," he reminded with an angry edge to his tone. "I swear, you have no idea how much restraint it took, not to slap the crap out of her for that."

Smiling slight, she said, "Thanks," but then added sadly, "That would've caused more problems than solved, though."

"That's why I didn't," he returned with a sigh. The only reason he didn't rip into the woman, was for Monica's sake.

"I know your mom is a little… weird," she said as she turned her head only to face him, "But at least she loves you."

"In her own weird way," he scoffed, smiling, then asked, carefully, "Was she always this mean to you? Even when you were little?"

"It got worse over the years," she said with a shrug, her gaze back on the road, "But, it was most noticeable, when I started picking up weight. Then it just, became a cycle. The more I gained, the more she bitched. The more she bitched, the more I gained. I thought, maybe, once I **lost** the weight, things might get better, but, they didn't."

"God, Mon, I'm sorry," he apologized, sighing heavily. He could feel her despair, and more than anything, he wished he could take it away. "Is there anything I can do? Anything I can say, that'll help somehow? I hate seeing you so sad." He was totally unprepared for her return response, or the conversation that followed.

"You could answer a question for me," she said, her eyes dropping to her lap as she took in a shaky breath.

A bit perplexed, he scowled as he answered, "Of course."

"Was I really that disgusting to you, back when I was fat?" she asked, and he startled visibly.

"What?" he asked, his scowl deepening, his eyes darting in her direction several times while still trying to focus on the road and traffic.

Sighing, she whispered, "I heard you call me fat, Chandler. You were helping Ross with the dishes, after dinner, that first Thanksgiving, and you told him that you didn't want to get stuck hanging out with me. Your fat sister, is what you called me," she added, then sighed again.

"Oh, God," he whispered, mostly to himself, then told her, "Mon, God, I'm **so** sorry! I was high! Thanksgiving is a rough holiday for me, and I was ridiculously wasted, and just looking to get back there, when I started coming down! It doesn't excuse it, I know, but, that's **why** I said it! Not cause I thought you were disgusting!"

"You showed no interest in me, until **after** I lost the weight," she mentioned nervously, biting at her lip for the same reason.

Sighing, he admitted, "I wasn't physically attracted to you, when you were… heavy. I'm not gonna lie to you about that, cause you deserve the truth, but, I didn't think you were disgusting. I thought you were very sweet," he added, "What with you making me the mac-n-cheese and all."

She laughed, and he cracked a tiny, relieved smile at the sound. "I was just wondering," she said with a shrug, and he nodded in understanding.

"Is that-? Is that why you… lost the weight?" he asked hesitantly. "Because I called you fat?"

"Part of the reason," she answered. "I needed to, and, like I said, I thought it might make things better, between me and my mother."

"Well, you **did** need to," he told her, then rushed on to explain, "And not because you were disgusting! But, because, that kind of weight just isn't healthy! But, you shouldn't've had to do it, to win me or your mom over."

"Won **you** over, at least," she muttered, then scoffed. "I doubt I would have, if I were still heavy," she added, and his heart dropped.

She had a valid point. A point his brain had to think and rethink on, for the remaining three minutes of their journey. Would he care for her in the same way, would he be attracted to her, and ache every minute of his waking hours, to hold her and be with her, if she was still heavy? The answer came to him as he parked the truck near the entrance to her apartment building.

Throwing it in park and turning the key to cut the engine, he then sighed as he faced her. She saw his movements out of her peripheral vision, but remained in her exact position, eyes focused on her lap, still biting at her lip.

"Monica," he sighed, "You're still the same person, that you were before, and the person you **are**, is the person I care about. The weight woulda made physical attraction difficult for me, but that doesn't mean we wouldn't have become friends! And above all else, your friendship means the world to me," he added, then reached over and lifted her face with a simple touch of his finger under her chin.

A moment passed, and then she laughed, shortly, softly, before diverting her eyes as she said with a slight smile, "You always know just what to say."

"Always," he whispered, smiling as well, then he suggested after a long pause, "Let's get this going, k? They should be here in a few, anyway," he added, then dropped his hand and shifted to leave the truck.

"Chandler?" she called to him, and he stopped his exit, but stayed facing away from her.

"Yeah?"

A million things she wanted to say, but she settled on the most unproblematic. "Are you gonna hang with me for a bit, after all this? Nana was gonna order a pizza, I think," she added, as if that alone might be reason enough for him to say he would stay.

He could read her like a book. "I don't need pizza, to want to hang with you, Monica. Of course I'll stay," he added, then pushed out his door and shut it softly behind him.

Smiling, she hopped out and headed for the back. The sliding door was already up, and he was sitting on the edge, swinging his legs to and fro, a silly grin on his face as he watched her step up. He patted the spot beside him, inviting her to join him, and she rolled her eyes and smirked as she backed up to it and pushed herself up to sit beside him.

"Thought we were gonna get going," she teased, her heart fluttering when he inched his fingers against hers as they cupped their hands around the ledge they were sitting on.

"We got a few minutes," he laughed. "Why should Ross miss out on all the moving fun?" he added, laughing again when she did.

"Seems like we haven't had much time alone, this past week," she mentioned carefully, "What with Ross, and him wanting to hang out with us all the time now. And when we're not with Ross," she added, "We're out at the coffeehouse, which, also isn't us being alone."

"I know," he sighed, "But, maybe that's a good thing. Less chance of us wanting," he added guardedly.

"I always want you, Chandler," she whispered, "In a room full of people, or alone by myself."

He carefully slid his hand onto hers, then stated simply, "I know."

"You're all I can think about, Chandler," she admitted, her tone carrying a pain that stabbed at his heart. "I got a 'B', for the first time the other day!" she exclaimed, sighing in irritation with herself. "I forgot to wipe the side of the plate, after I set up the presentation. Stupid mistake I **never** make, but-- Mr. Buchanan was great about it," she continued, "Told me it happens, and not to worry about it, but, I just… I know why it happened. I was distracted. It was the next day, after we… kissed," she added cautiously, her adrenalin coursing as she hesitantly brought up that night, for the first time since it had happened.

"I shouldn't've done it," he sighed, berating himself. "I'm sorry I was such a weak bastard," he added, dropping his gaze to the ground and sighing again.

"You're not a bastard," she told him, almost sternly, "And, I'm glad you did it. It was an amazing kiss," she added, shifting closer so that their shoulders were touching.

"Yeah," he whispered in agreement, "It was."

"Have you kissed a lot of girls?" she asked curiously, even though she was nervous to hear the answer.

"Not really," he answered, then shrugged.

"How many?" she asked, pressing for a more definitive answer. "You know," she added, "Just, a rough estimate."

Laughing, he said, "Not enough to need a rough estimate!" then his smile dropped as he admitted, "Two."

"Including me?" she asked, and he shook his head.

"Besides you," he answered.

"Did you… sleep… with them?" she asked, stammering over the question.

Closing his eyes, sighing heavily, he answered, "One of them."

"I wonder if she realizes how lucky she is," she whispered, and he laughed in response.

"Don't think she felt she was, Mon," he said with a shake of his head. "She seemed pretty anxious to leave," he added, "And she ignored me after that."

"Who was she?" she asked. "Did you really like her?"

"I thought I did," he answered. "She was the housekeeper's daughter," he added, then sighed. "Summer before college," he shared, "She came out for a couple weeks, to hang and stuff… Knew her for years, always thought she was cool… She would hang during summer breaks, almost every summer. We were out at the pool, playing around and stuff. You know, splashing and messing around? We started kissing, and then she pulled me over to the pool house. I don't know," he muttered, shrugging, "Maybe I sucked at it or something. Wasn't like I knew what I was doing," he laughed, but there was a pain to it that Monica picked up on.

"I can't imagine that being possible," she told him, nudging his shoulder to gain his attention. When he slowly looked over at her, and their eyes locked, she whispered, "Every time you touch me, even innocently, my body aches for you, in ways I don't think I fully even understand, and I just know, if you were to **be** with me, that it would be the most fantastic experience--"

"Monica, please, God, stop," he begged of her, interrupting her, closing his eyes as he dropped his chin to his chest.

"Don't be mad," she whispered. "I'm sorry. Don't be mad," she repeated, then leaned her head into him.

"I'm not," he promised her. "I'm **so** not mad. I'm… something else. Something I shouldn't be," he added, then sighed with shame.

"I'm sorry," she apologized again. "I told you I would be good. It's hard to be good," she added in a whisper, and he chuckled at the understatement.

"We have to be, though," he told her as he leaned his head against hers. "We can't keep doing this to ourselves. Wanting what we can't have, what we can **never** have, is going to drive us to insanity. And as fun as rubber rooms are," he quipped, "I don't want to be a resident in one."

She laughed, but then asked of him seriously, "Tell me again, why we can't, just, **not tell Ross**?"

"I promised him, Mon," he answered, "And, that aside, I'll lose him as a friend, and lose you eventually, too. I swear, Mon, my life will end, if you're not in it."

"I will **always** be in your life, Chandler," she assured him, "Even if Ross **isn't**. In **any** way that you want me to be. I just wish, that you wanted **more**," she added, then sighed and closed her eyes, knowing before they even started welling, that the tears were coming.

"Monica, please," he sighed, "I **do** want more. I want to be with you. I want to be able to hold you, without causing you pain. I want to be able to kiss you, and touch you, and… and do everything to you and for you that you deserve, and that my body and heart are **dying** for! But wanting all those things, doesn't do either of us a damn bit of good, if we can never **have** them!"

"So, you want me to, just, turn off my feelings? Like a water faucet?" she asked with a slightly annoyed sigh.

"Shit, if you figure out how, for the love of God, tell me!" he semi-quipped, then sighed as he told her seriously, "I know you can't do that, and I can't either. We can just hope, that, in time, the want won't be so fucking gutwrenching."

"I could be married fifty years, have three kids, six grandkids, and I will **still** have a gutwrenching need to be with you."

Three thoughts hit him, all in as many seconds. One, the thought of her being with anyone but him, caused a pain and jealousy that burned him to his very soul. Two, the idea that she would still want him, after so many years, even while being with someone she obviously cared enough about to marry, was the most flattering and romantic thing he had ever heard. And three, it was the most depressing statement ever said in the history of mankind.

He commented on the third.

"That's the most depressing thing I have ever heard, Mon," he whispered, then turned slightly to face her, breaking the gentle contact of their shoulders, requesting her full attention by staring back at her pointedly. "You're going to need to get over me eventually," he said, just short of sternly. "You're not going to do yourself, or any guy you're with, **any** good, if you're still thinking about **me**, when all you should be thinking about is **him**. I know it's not going to happen overnight," he added. "I know it's not going to happen for a **while**, but, you're gonna need to, **eventually**, get over me."

"Are **you** gonna get over **me**?" she asked, almost dreading the answer. Neither response would ease the pain.

Looking away, he answered, "No. I don't think I ever will."

"Then, you really shouldn't be giving out advice, now should you?" she asked, the slight humor in her tone calling his attention.

The smile she wore, as he lifted his eyes to hers once again, brought one to his face as well. "Lots of people don't take their own advice," he quipped, "Doesn't make the advice any less **good**!"

A tiny smirk appeared as she shrugged, then she quickly, almost brightly, suggested, "Let's just get started. Their taxi got lost or something!"

Offering a quick nod in agreement, just happy to be moving past the unbearable gutwrenching tension, he hopped down, grabbed her waist to help her to as well, then extended his hand as he asked of her, "Gimmee the keys, and I'll go unlock the door. You babysit the truck," he added, "Or you won't have any shit to move, once we get back!"

She laughed as she fished her keys out of her pocket, then handed them over without a second thought. He was almost to the lobby door when he stopped dead, and she instantly knew why. His head was slightly dropped, like he was looking at what was in his hands, and her heart climbed into her throat. It shouldn't have mattered. It wasn't like he didn't know what her feelings were, but that did nothing to stop the fear from shooting through her.

He was just trying to find the most logical key on the ring, that would open the apartment door. He wasn't even really paying that close of attention, to the dangling ornaments hanging from it. But then one caught his eye, and he froze in place.

Colorful beads on a piece of string had never been so poignant. In the middle of them, was the letter 'I', then a heart symbol, then the letters 'CB'.

Slowly, he turned to face her and her heart literally felt like it had stopped. They locked eyes immediately, a slight, warm smile inching into his pained expression, and then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, before spinning back around and disappearing inside.

For the entire trek up the stairs, he stared down at it, taking each step by feel, rather than sight. Finally, he reached the landing, and he forced his eyes off it as he moved over to the apartment door. He tried the first key that seemed most likely, and it worked, which, weirdly, brought a smile to his face.

If all things could be so simple.

**XXX**

--Ross had to go. He only stayed long enough to move Monica's belongings up from the truck, and say a tearful goodbye to Nana, since he wouldn't be seeing her again before she left for Florida. Then he rambled for a second about Carol killing him for being late and left.

"I should probably take the truck back to your dad," Chandler said, shortly after Ross made his exit. "But," he added, "If the offer is still good, I can come back after, for a slice of pizza."

"Of course the offer is still good!" Nana chirped. "After all your hard work today, you earned it! Monica!" she announced, turning to face her granddaughter, "You should go with him! Keep him company! Then," she added, "Come on back here, and we'll put in a call to the pizza place."

Wanting to see what his reaction was before agreeing, Monica looked over to Chandler, her expression requesting his thoughts.

"Company would be good," he said with a slight smile, and she returned it as she slowly nodded.

"Wonderful!" Nana exclaimed, overly excited over such an unexciting thing, then asked, "Chandler, why don't you call for the cab **here**, so you won't have to use the phone in the pit of hell?"

Laughing, he said, "Yeah, good idea," then immediately headed for the phone on the kitchen counter.

"Chandler is a unique name," Nana mentioned, watching him as he sifted through the yellowpages near the phone, looking for the number of any of the dozens of taxi services listed.

"I have unique parents," he returned, his attention divided, the answer falling easily off his tongue, since he'd said it a million times before.

"You go by anything, less formal?" she asked casually, to which he shook his head, then tapped the large ad on the page as he reached for the phone. "Not even, by initials?" she asked. "CB, right?"

He froze in mid-dial, then hesitated for several seconds before answering, "Yeah, those are my initials, and no, I don't go by them."

Laughing at the six shades of red Monica turned, Nana said, "Well, CB suits you! A nice, charming boy such as you! Think that's what **I'll** call you from now on! Yep!" she agreed with herself, "CB! Good fit! Well, I'm off to the bathroom," she announced, instantly after making the comment. "Monica, Sweetie, lock the door when you two go, ok? And don't forget your **keys**," she added, then smirked and walked away.

"Sorry," Monica apologized sheepishly. "Guess Nana doesn't have much of a filter either."

"It's cool," he replied, waiting to dial the last digit in the number for the cab company. "She seems all for the idea," he added, knowing she would understand what he meant by the vague statement, and Monica nodded.

"Yeah, I think the only one who isn't, is Ross," she said with a sigh. "Well, him, and probably my mom," she added. "But that has nothing to do with you. If you were dating **Ross**, she'd love you!"

"Yeah, not so much," he muttered sarcastically. "The only thing I got from my dad, were his eyes," he quipped, and Monica laughed in response.

He punched in the last number with a grin, then turned his attention to the call.

**X**

--They were several minutes into the trip, the idle conversation between them sparse and strained, before Chandler broached the subject. There was no reason to, other than curiosity, but that didn't stop him. He just hoped it wouldn't embarrass her.

"I liked your keychain."

"Yeah, thanks," she replied with a nervous laugh. "A little lame, I know," she added, "But, a bunch of the ladies were making them, during lunch break from class, and they asked if I wanted to join them. They **never** ask me to join them! So, I jumped at it, but, I didn't exactly know what to make, so, I made **that**."

Nodding, he said, "Definitely **not** lame. It's sweet," he added, then glanced over at her and smiled.

She looked away, embarrassed, then mentioned, trying to sound casual, "Everyone was doing three initials, but, I didn't know it."

"M," he told her without hesitation, then smirked to himself when he saw her turn towards him again out of his peripheral vision.

"What's it stand for?" she asked curiously, quirking an eyebrow when he groaned.

"I don't tell people my middle name," he informed her, smiling when she laughed.

"Why not?" she asked.

"It's embarrassing," he answered, knowing instinctively that she would never give up, until he told her what it was.

"Well, I'm not '**people**'," she stated firmly, but playfully, "So, you can tell me."

"Nope!" he shot back, hiding his grin, determined to play out the game for as long as possible.

Sighing, still playing, she asked, "If I guess it, will you tell me if I'm right?"

"You will **never** guess it!" he laughed.

"Is that a yes?" she asked teasingly.

Shaking his head in amusement, smirking, he said, "Go for it."

Sitting a little taller, preparing to put her all into the game, she gave it thought for a moment, before taking her first guess. "Matthew?"

"No," he answered, his smirk growing.

"Mark?"

"No," he laughed, then shook his head, like it was the funniest guess in the world.

"Ok," she said, "By your laugh, and going by your **first** name, I'm guessing… weirder?"

"I'm not giving you hints!" he laughed, and then she did too.

"Fine," she huffed playfully, then fell silent in thought again. "Marvin?"

"No."

"Murphy?"

"No."

"Milford?"

"Milford?" he laughed shortly, then shook his head. "No."

Sighing, she told him, "You know, I can find out what it is!"

"How?" he asked.

"I bet it's on your driver's license!" she announced, then unlatched her seatbelt quickly and reached across to dig in his back pocket for his wallet.

He nearly launched out of his seat, swerving slightly out of his lane, laughing as he yelled, "Hey! Get your hand off my ass!"

Even with him squirming, she was able to get to it, and then she sat back in her seat in triumph, waggling it teasingly before flipping it open. She located it easily, then pulled it out happily before training her eyes on his name, but the smile slowly dropped from her face a moment later.

"Hey!" she complained, "It only says 'M'!" and Chandler burst out laughing. "Not fair!" she exclaimed. "Just, tell me!"

"Nope!" he said, laughing again when she huffed and slumped in her seat, pouting.

She slipped his license back in, but then only stared down at his wallet for several silent seconds. Finally, she asked, "Can I…?"

Knowing what she was asking, he chuckled softly and made a gesture with his hand, giving her permission. When she sat up taller again, seemingly pleased, he smirked to himself.

The license, she saw, so she moved past it. Bank card. Gold card. Platinum card. Library card. Video rental store card. Then she peeked into the larger opening, slowly, almost as if she shouldn't. Twenties, fifties, hundreds. Plural!

"Oh my God," she whispered. "Chandler! How fucking rich **are** you?"

He laughed, then gestured for the return of his wallet. She handed it over instantly, and as he tucked it back into his pocket, he muttered, "**I'm** not rich. My **parents** are rich. I just happen to benefit from that," he added, then smiled over at her quickly before returning his eyes to the road.

"You don't have any pictures, in your wallet," she mentioned, to which he shook his head in response. "How come?" she asked.

Shrugging, he answered, "Don't have any."

"If I gave you one, would you put it in your wallet?" she asked, and he smirked.

"What kind of picture?" he asked, just shy of flirtatiously.

Blushing, she answered, "Any kind of picture."

"Yes," he said, in an almost whisper, "I would love to have a picture of you, in my wallet." His smile grew wider when she seemed to perk up. Pausing for a moment, he then asked, "Do I get to look in your purse now?"

"Why would you **want** to?" she answered with a question, teasingly.

"Why would **you** want to look through my wallet?" he asked, matching her tone.

"I was curious," she answered with a shrug.

"Same answer, please," he returned with a grin, adding playfully, a moment later, "And **no** cleaning it out first! I want to see the **real** Monica!"

She scoffed, then informed him, "I clean my purse out every few days! The **real** Monica is **very** neat and orderly!"

"And defends that fact vehemently, apparently," he teased.

"Ha, ha," she deadpanned, but then almost immediately groaned. "Oh, God, we're here."

"Yeah," he sighed, his smile dropping. "Just, let **me** go return the key, ok?" he suggested. "I don't want to run the risk of you seeing her again," he added, but she shook her head.

"Nah, it's alright," she told him. "I'll go with you."

"Are you sure?" he asked. "I don't mind."

"I'm sure," she answered. "Thanks, though. For, you know, offering," she added, and he nodded simply in response as he pulled up in front of the house.

As soon as he cut the engine, he reached over and took her hand in his. "You're not **any** of the things she calls you," he told her, almost firmly. "Remember that."

"Thanks," she whispered, then gave him a strained but grateful smile before moving to leave the vehicle, but he held her hand tightly, preventing her. "What?" she asked, her eyes back on his.

"Muriel," he whispered, and she cocked an eyebrow in response. "The 'M'," he explained, then repeated simply, "Muriel," before smiling slight, dropping her hand, and pushing out his door.

Her smile grew, but not because it was an odd name. She startled when the door clicked and opened, turning to see a smiling Chandler, standing with his hand extended, offering his assistance to her in a gentlemanly way, in exiting the truck.

Luckily, Jack answered the door when they knocked, and while they were sure Judy was hanging around the corner, just out of view, she didn't show herself or interfere in any way. Chandler was glad for that, not just for Monica's sake, but because he didn't know what he would do or say, if the woman started in with her insults.

"How are you getting back?" Jack asked, sighing as he glanced to his left. Monica knew her mom had whispered something, by her dad's reaction.

"We called a cab, Sir, right before we left Nana's," Chandler answered. "It should be here any minute," he added.

"Well, if it doesn't show," Jack offered, "Come back up and I'll call another one for you."

"Thanks, Dad," Monica said with a nod, mostly to convey that she was alright, even though he hadn't asked her if she was, then turned and headed down the walkway.

Chandler sighed, nodded goodbye to Jack, then tucked his hands in his pockets as he moved to follow Monica.

"Was it stupid of me to think that she'd come to the door, and tell me she's sorry? And that she loves me?" she asked, near tears, then plopped down on the curb at the edge of the sidewalk with a heavy sigh.

"No," he answered, joining her, "It wasn't stupid. Wishful thinking," he added as he slipped his arm around her and pulled her close to him, "But definitely not stupid."

When she started to cry, he brought her legs around to cross over his, then helped her into his lap as he shushed her consolingly. She buried her face in the crook of his neck, and as he began to rock with her, her grief escalated.

"It's ok, Honey," he whispered, "Let it out."

"Parents are supposed to **love** their children!" she cried.

"I know," he sighed, then asked carefully, "Do you… want me to go talk to her?"

Shaking her head, she choked out, "No. It won't do any good," she added, then took a deep breath as she began to compose herself. "I'm ok," she lied, then shifted to leave his lap, retaking a seat on the curb beside him as she whispered, "Good and bad days."

"Today, is a bad day," he said with a nod, to which she scoffed lightly in response.

"A **very** bad day," she added, then sighed as she brought her knees up to her chest. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"If you had a choice, would you rather have June Cleaver for a mother, or the trust fund, and all that money?"

Sighing, pausing a moment to think, he finally said, "When I was growing up… June. Definitely. But, now… I don't know. Mom is who Mom is, and I'm an adult. Money makes things possible. Don't get me wrong," he added, "Money isn't the end all, be all of my interests. I'm not a snob! But, I'm also not stupid. Money, in this world, is necessary, and I'm grateful I don't have that to worry about. Would I trade it all in, for a mom who packs me my school lunch and pats me on the head as I leave for school? Maybe. Definitely when I was younger, but, now… I don't really **need** a pat on my head, ya'know?"

"Yeah," she sighed. "She loves you, though," she added. "You can tell."

"Yeah," he agreed, "She does."

"What about your dad?" she asked, surprised when he laughed.

"What about him?" he asked in return. "That question is just **way** too vague," he added, then slipped his arm around her and inched closer.

"What's he like?" she asked, then added, "Still too vague?"

Shrugging, he said, "He is who he is, too," then sighed as he added, "He's an ok guy. Came out of the closet when I was nine, and has been living the lifestyle with flair ever since."

"Does it bother you?" she asked. "That he's gay?"

"It was unsettling at first," he answered, "But, **now**? No."

"Is that why you were so angry?"

"Part of why," he admitted, "But, mostly, it was just, the way it all went down. They hid things from me. Not that I thought their marriage was perfect or anything, but, it all came as a huge shock. Then, next day, Dad was gone, Mom was getting sloshed, and maids and nannies were doting sympathy on me. Hard to wrap your brain around, ya'know? And then the kids at my school caught wind of things, and made my life a living hell. Even the guys I considered to be my friends! I snapped one day and started wailing on this one kid, and for the first time in months, I felt like I had some kind of control over things. Over my life. That started the downward spiral," he sighed, then kissed her hair softly, seeking comfort in the simple action.

Nodding, then deciding to change the subject, she asked, "Why Muriel?" She laughed when he groaned.

"It's a family name," he answered, "And my parents have a warped sense of humor," he added, then laughed when she did again.

"My nana's leaving in a couple days," she sighed, changing the subject again.

"I know," he whispered.

"I'm really gonna miss her," she added, and he nodded as he leaned to rest his head against hers.

"Yeah."

"It's weird," she said, "But, I think I'm a little scared, to be in the apartment, all by myself."

"It's a scary step, being alone and out on your own for the first time, but, you'll get the hang of it," he assured her.

She shrugged, then asked, "Can I ask a favor?"

"Sure."

"Will you stay with me? My first night alone?"

"Monday?" he asked, and she nodded. "I'd have to blow off classes Tuesday," he answered. "Or, at least the first one," he added.

"I understand," she sighed disappointedly, and he chuckled in response.

"I didn't say no, Mon," he said with a smirk, then added, "Just, letting you know the deal."

"You'd be willing to blow off your first class?" she asked, and he nodded.

"I'll blow them all off, Mon," he told her. "One missed day won't hurt anything."

"Well, if you do **that**," she said, "Then I'll blow off school, too. One day won't hurt anything," she added, repeating him, and they both laughed.

"K, so, Tuesday," he stated in confirmation, "Is an 'us' day. No school. No Ross. Just us." She nodded. "So, what do you want to do?" he asked.

She scoffed, and then they both burst out laughing.

"Besides **that**," he mock scolded her, when the laughter eased, and she shrugged.

"We'll wing it," she answered, and he nodded in agreement.

"Sounds like a plan, then."

The problems with her mother seemed to drift away, as her thoughts landed firmly on their loosely made plans. Monday night and all day Tuesday, with him all to herself. Being good would be hard, but, she promised him she would be. She had to be. Every time he pushed her away, a part of her died. It was killing him, too. How can being in another person's presence make one feel so alive, and so close to death, all at the same time?

"Mon? Cab's here."

His whispered words brought her out of her reverie, and she nodded as she moved to stand, allowing him to help her by taking his hand when he extended it.

They remained silent for the entire drive back to Nana's, her in his arms, the million things that begged to be said never leaving their private thoughts. Saying them wouldn't make a damn bit of difference, anyway. The situation was hopeless. As long as Ross disapproved, and there was no way that was ever going to change, they were trapped in purgatory. Caught between Heaven and Hell. Dreaming of Heaven, where they could finally be together, dreading Hell, where they finally moved on to lives that didn't include the other.

Pulling up in front of the apartment building, Monica slowly left Chandler's arms, then only stared back for a long few moments. He knew. Her sad eyes said it all. He nodded in understanding.

"Smile," she whispered, then demonstrated. "Nana can spot angst a mile away, too," she added, and he laughed, which she then did, too.

"At least Nana doesn't talk about having sex in the back of limos," he quipped.

"Oh, God," she groaned jokingly, as they left the cab, "Do **not** put **that** mental image in my head, please!"

"Sorry," he apologized, though not at all remorsefully, then asked, "So, when do I get to snoop through your purse?"

"Monday night?" she answered, as they entered the lobby and headed for the stairs.

"That gives you **way** too much time to dispose of the evidence," he laughed, grasping her hand as they ascended to her floor.

"What do you think I **have** in my purse?" she asked playfully, with joking indignation. "Murder weapons? A body?"

Laughing, he drawled, "No. **But**," he added, "If there's anything you **don't** want me to see, you'll get rid of it, and I want to see it **all**."

The tone he used told her he had purposefully implied the double meaning.

"Mmmhmm," she hummed sarcastically, then suggested, "Hang out, after pizza, and after Nana goes to bed, and you can then."

He smirked. "Cool."

--Nana turned in early, all the packing of the previous week catching up to her, taking its toll. The stress from Judy didn't help matters. She said her goodnights as Chandler was finishing up the pizza left in the box, then reminded Monica to lock up after he left, before disappearing into her room.

"So," Chandler said, tossing the crust from his slice into the open box that sat on the coffee table in front of them, "Where's your purse?" He smirked when she laughed.

"I think you're about to be disappointed," she muttered sarcastically, then moved to retrieve it off the hook by the door, returning to him seconds later, standing over him with a half grin as she handed it down to him.

Playfully, he brushed his hands together, like he was beyond giddy with excitement, then removed it from her outstretched hand. He glanced in her direction as she retook her seat beside him, then peeked inside and began to rummage. Pulling out a small zipper bag, he looked to her for identification.

"Makeup," she stated simply, and he unzipped it, verified that, then zipped it back up and set it aside.

Scowling, he pulled out a small plastic-wrapped square and held it up, then lifted his eyes to hers.

"Um…" She hesitated, then dropped her eyes as she muttered, "Feminine product."

He made an unintelligible sound of disgust as he quickly tossed it aside, then went back to exploring.

Hairbrush. Gum. Keys. He smiled, then made a point to pull them out, finger the letters and heart symbol for a moment, before setting it aside. Address book. Wallet.

That caught his interest. He set the purse beside him, then gave the rectangular leather pouch his full attention.

Library card. Social Security card. Old receipts. Pictures.

Pictures.

His smile grew as he started thumbing through them. Ross. Her parents. Some dog. Rachel. He froze.

"How did you get this?" he asked, his gaze remaining on the picture of himself, that he never even remembered taking.

Looking away guiltily, she answered, "Ross. He gave Mom a bunch of pictures, and you were in this one… I think it was taken at some party," she explained, after trailing off, "Cause there were other people in the picture, and Ross and Carol were on your left, but, I cut them out."

Nodding, seeing that she was embarrassed, he said simply, "I'll get you a better one," then added, "I'm insanely high in this one."

"How can you tell?" she asked, and he chuckled.

"My eyes," he answered. "Very squinty," he added, then closed her wallet and set it aside. He pulled her purse back into his lap and peered inside again.

Tiny notepad. Pen. Kleenex. Chapstick. Bottle of pain reliever. The note he wrote her.

Smirking, he pulled it out and held it up. "You kept it?" he asked, and she smiled sheepishly as she nodded. "Why?"

"It was cute," she said with a shrug, then asked, "Is that a problem? That I kept it?"

"Of course not," he answered, then started collecting her things, to return them, but she put her hand on his to stop him.

"I have an order to things," she told him, explaining herself, then smirked when he laughed at her, and huffed as she snatched the purse off his lap.

Watching her for a moment, as she carefully placed things away, he told her, "I learned something about you."

Continuing on task, she quirked an eyebrow as she asked, "Yeah, what?"

He waited until his silence brought her eyes to his. When he had her attention, he answered, "Your lips are soft for a reason." Her breath hitched. "The Chapstick," he added, when he caught her reaction, then leaned in and pressed his lips lightly to hers.

Being good sucked. Fuck being good. She threw her purse to the floor, raked her hand into his hair, then intensified the kiss.

"Monica…" he whispered as a warning, that they needed to stop, before it went too far, but she only shushed him, then forced her lips on his once again. Lost in what was happening, he didn't even realize, until he was almost fully reclined, that she was pushing him back and climbing on top of him. Grabbing her waist, pushing to try and prevent full body contact, he pulled his lips away and breathed, "God, Monica, no. Don't- Don't do this. I only have so much willpower."

Ignoring his plea, she simply said in return, "I've missed being alone with you, this past week," then leaned in to brush her lips across his neck.

"Fuck," he whispered, and she smiled against him.

"I would love to," she murmured, and he groaned.

"Don't talk like that, Monica," he asked of her, breathlessly. "It wouldn't be like that," he insisted.

"How would it be?" she asked, trailing her tongue up to behind his ear, pleased in the knowledge that she was affecting him when he moaned in response.

He relaxed his arms and allowed her to fall into him, then moaned again. "I would cherish every inch of you," he whispered hoarsely, his hands leaving her waist to slide up her back. "It would be perfect, and beautiful, and amazing. It would be everything you deserve. It would **never** be just sex," he added, his breathing turning heavy as she started moving against him.

"Come to my room with me, Chandler, please," she begged him, and he groaned as he swung his legs off the couch, steadying her in his arms as he struggled to stand.

His lips sought hers, kissing her heatedly at first, but as he made his way to her room, it eased, to something much more tender. Kicking the door closed with his foot, he moved to her bed, then laid her gently on it, but he didn't follow her in. Instead, he dropped to his knees beside it.

"We can't," he whispered, panting, and when she shifted onto her side, and looked back at him with hurt eyes, he closed his and took her hands in his. "I'm sorry… **God**, you have no idea how sorry I am, but, we can't. When I leave," he added quickly, before she could interrupt, "Think of me. **My** hands, **my** fingers, touching you. Taking you there. I'll lock the doorknob when I go," he told her. "You can do the chain later."

He kissed her hands, then pushed off the floor, and immediately turned to walk out, but she called his name, and he stopped short.

"Yeah?" he asked, his voice just shy of a whisper. He didn't dare face her. He would cave for sure.

"Will you be thinking of **me** tonight?" she asked, and he sighed as he dropped his chin to his chest.

"Always," he admitted. "Goodnight, Monica," he said in a soft tone, then quickly yanked the door open and left, shutting it behind him carefully.

When she heard the front door close, she sighed, then rolled onto her back, finally allowing the tears to fall.

Once out in the hall, he fell back against the door, then slid slowly to the floor, taking steady breaths in an attempt to ease his arousal.

"I should get a fucking medal for that," he whispered to himself, then shook his head and scoffed.

Thank God the door was locked, otherwise, he would have been tempted to go back in and finish what they had started. He knew he couldn't. He knew he wanted to. He would give every dollar in his trust fund, for just one night without consequences. No guilt over promises broken. No destruction of friendships. No angry siblings and rifts between family members.

Hundreds of thousands of dollars, for one amazing night. No amount of money could buy him that. He had never felt poorer in his life.

"Fuck," he sighed, then pushed himself off the ground and headed for the stairs.

No amount of money could buy him his night, but it sure could buy him enough weed to forget the idea of it. At least for a while. He just hoped Jarod was stocked.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

Ok, according to my beta reader, this (chapter) is the best thing I've ever written. Do we agree? Disagree? Inquiring minds wanna know!

Still working on chapter 8. I've been ill, so it's been slow going. And I had a direction for it, but didn't care for it, so backed up and redirected it. Still seems 'off' in some ways, so, it might be a few days, before it's posted. Sorry about that.

Still looking like it's gonna be 10 chapters. I actually have a lot of 10 written, though it's mostly just dialog at this point (will fill in the 'scenery' when I get to it), but chapter 9, is only random thoughts in my head, so, it may take a few days **after** I post chapter 8, for that chapter to be posted. Chapter 10 should be faster to post, after posting chapter 9, though. Just thought I'd share (smile).

You know what sucks? One hundred degrees F (37 C) weather! I'm friggin melting! Would rather have cold weather! I can always put on more clothes, but I can only take off so much! And when I run around naked, people throw garbage at me! (smirk)

I had a dream, that I got 10 reviews for this chapter, cause it was/is **that** good! Make my dreams come true, won't you? (grin)

MTLBYAKY


	8. Chapter 8

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter Eight**

**XXX**

--Monica was beside herself with worry and fear. The drive was taking forever, though it really only seemed that way to her, given her emotional state. With nothing to do but cling to Nana and wait to arrive, she kept replaying the phone conversation she'd had less than thirty minutes prior, over and over again inside her mind.

"_I've been arrested. I need your help, if… if you don't mind."_

"_Oh my God. Chandler. Of course I don't mind! What happened? Why were you arrested?"_

"_Drugs. Intent to buy illegal narcotics."_

"_Oh, God."_

"_I can explain it all later, if you want me to, but, I only have a minute, right now. This is my one and only phone call I'm allowed."_

"_Fuck. Ok, where are you? What precinct? What do you need me to do?"_

"_I told them that my __**fiancée**__ would be coming down. They're gonna give you my belongings. I need you to take my bank card, and my credit cards, and pull the max out of each. ATMs usually allow a max of three hundred, per card. Then, bring the money back and post my bail so I can get the hell out of here. Bail is twelve hundred."_

"_Ok. Um, yeah. I don't know the pin numbers, though."_

"_I'm gonna tell you them. Get a paper and pen."_

"_Ok. Yeah, shoot."_

"_ATM card… Ross' birthday. Month, and last two digits of year."_

"_K."_

"_Gold card… try to follow me here… first number, two months before Ross' birth month."_

"_Eight?"_

"_Yes. Second number, five months before."_

"_His birth month? Five?"_

"_Yes. Third number, one month before."_

"_Nine. K. Last number?"_

"_Jump ahead four."_

"_Two?"_

"_Yeah. Platinum card… the numbers from the last card? Reverse them."_

"_Two-nine-five-eight?"_

"_Yes. That's nine hundred, from all three cards, if you pull the maximum each. The rest is in my wallet."_

"_Ok. I'll be there as soon as I can. Are you ok? You sound… bad."_

"_I've been better. I'm __**so**__ sorry about this, Mon. I just, didn't know who else to call."_

"_You can always call me, Chandler. I'll be there as quick as I can. Which precinct are you at?"_

--"Monica, Sweetie, we're here," Nana whispered, pulling Monica from her reverie.

Shifting out of her grandmother's arms, Monica sighed, nodded, then moved to leave the cab as Nana paid the driver.

"I knew something like this was bound to happen," Monica muttered, in a near-whisper, and Nana sighed as she wrapped an arm around her.

"How long have you known?" Nana asked.

Sighing, Monica admitted, as they both headed for the steps to the police station, "Almost as long as I've known him."

"He needs to get off it," Nana stated, firmly but softly, and Monica nodded.

"I know," she whispered, then they both ascended the steps to the double doors.

Monica approached the desk apprehensively. She felt small, unimportant, and completely unsure of how to handle herself or the situation. He needed her though. Even if out of her comfort zone, there wasn't anything she wouldn't do for him.

"Um, hi," she said to the officer behind the counter, "I'm Monica Geller. Chandler Bing's, um, fiancée? I'm supposed to pick up his belongings and post bail?"

Totally unperturbed, like he had dealt with similar situations a million times before, he started spouting off instructions of what she would need to do. Then, thrusting papers on a clipboard at her, he informed her that he would go get Mr. Bing's personal affects and walked away.

The process was tedious, and took hours to complete, but finally, they released him. He stepped out from the back, his head hung low, hands in his pockets, looking disheveled and despondent, and Monica immediately stood from off the little bench she had spent the better part of the last hour on as he approached.

Frustration and guilt was clearly written all over his face, and it killed her to see it. When he was at last just a few feet away, she closed the gap fast and threw her arms around his neck, holding him fiercely as she whispered in his ear.

"God, Chandler, I was **so** worried! Are you ok? God, please tell me you're ok."

"I'm ok," he sighed, but he didn't return the embrace. He just stood there, hands still in his pockets, his eyes landing on Nana as Monica continued to cling to him. She gave a slight smile and a nod, and Chandler closed his eyes when she did, out of shame, mostly, then sighed again as he pulled his hands free. His arms circled around her, pulling her close, needing her and the comfort she offered desperately.

They remained like that for several minutes, ignoring the activity around them, until Nana stepped up and touched Chandler's arm. He acknowledged her by opening his eyes, but didn't break away from Monica's hold.

"Come back to the apartment with us, ok?" Nana asked of him. "We should chat."

Closing his eyes again, tightly, guiltily, he nodded, then sighed as he released Monica from his arms and stuffed his hands back in his pockets. "I'm sorry, Nana," he whispered, his head hanging, his gaze landing on the floor, and Nana sighed.

"I know you are, CB," she said softly. "If you look in the dictionary, under the word 'remorseful', it has a picture beside it of **that** expression," she added as she patted his cheek, and he cracked a tiny smile in response. It instantly dropped, however, and Nana sighed again. "I was young once, too, ya'know," she told him. "Won't even go into the kind of trouble **I** got into!" she laughed. "The important thing here is to learn and move on."

He nodded solemnly, then took a step towards the exit, and as he did, Monica and Nana shared looks.

"He's gonna be ok," Nana assured her, and Monica sighed as she nodded.

"I hope you're right," she whispered, then moved to follow Chandler out the door, her arm linked with Nana's, silently dreading the conversation she knew she was going to have to have.

It was necessary, though. There was no escaping it. A million things to say, and she was going to have to say them all.

**XXX**

--The cab ride home was suffered through in silence, and even though he felt he had no right to, when Monica pushed against him, into his arms, Chandler gathered her to him and held her tightly. She was being so wonderful to him. He didn't deserve it. At least, in his way of thinking he didn't. Monica saw it differently.

He needed her support more than ever. She just hoped he would accept it, after everything was said and done.

"Do you hate me now, Nana?" Chandler asked as the three of them entered the apartment, but she just scoffed in return.

"CB, Sweetie, why would you think that?" she asked, to which he just shrugged in answer, and then dropped his gaze to the floor. "You couldn't be cuter if your parents were bunny rabbits," she laughed, then reached up, cupped his face, and pulled him towards her to kiss his cheek. "Sleep on the couch, after your little chat," she suggested, then smiled and added as she walked away and towards her room, "Monica knows where the extra blankets are. What do **I** need extra blankets for in Florida?" she asked herself, mumbling as she stepped up to her door, "Hotter than hell down there ninety percent of the time."

Chandler laughed. "God, I love her," he said to Monica, and she laughed and nodded in agreement. When his smile faded, hers did, too. "I'm so sorry, Monica," he apologized in a whisper. "I just, didn't know who else to call."

"I know," she sighed, then gestured towards the couch. "Let's sit, ok? We need to talk," she added, and he hung his head and nodded as he led the way into the livingroom.

He took a seat with a heavy sigh, and she followed him over, but didn't sit beside him. Watching as she dropped herself onto the coffee table in front of him, he then diverted his eyes, focusing on his clasped hands in his lap, waiting anxiously for her to begin.

"I was scared out of my mind, Chandler," she finally said, after several long seconds, and he nodded only in response. "I knew something like this was bound to happen!" she told him. "I just **knew** it! You take a risk, every time you go pick up, every time you smoke it, that something like this will happen! And with as long and as often as you've been doing it, I'm actually surprised it hasn't happened **sooner**!"

"I just got careless, is all," he replied. "Comfortable. I don't plan to make that mistake again," he assured her, but she sighed in frustration, in response.

"Again, Chandler? Really?" she shot at him. "What's it going to take, for you to wake up? Years in prison with hardened criminals? I can't stand the thought of it! I can't stand the idea of you, being locked up, for God knows how long! Not being able to see you. Talk to you. Spend time with you. I can't stand the thought of what could happen to you, while you're in there! Beat up, or… or worse! You have such a bright future ahead of you, Chandler," she sighed. "You're gonna be a brilliant author someday, I just know it! But, that's gonna be harder for you to do, from a jail cell!"

"I'm not gonna go to jail, Mon," he insisted. "This is a misdemeanor. I wasn't even carrying! I was just, in the wrong place at the wrong time. They'll slap my wrist, maybe give me a fine and community service, and send me on my way."

"**This** time!" she announced. "What about **next** time?"

"I don't plan on there being a next time," he told her. "I'm gonna be more careful, Mon, I swear," he added, and she sighed again.

"It's not about that, Chandler! Fuck!" she exclaimed, then looked away for a moment to calm herself before continuing. "I know it's a big part of your life. I **know** that, and I know why it is, and I know you **like** it, but, you like me, too!"

"Of course I like you," he said, somewhat confused. "What does me smoking weed, have to do with how I feel about you? Can't I do both?"

"We **have** been!" she announced. "Every week! Every few days! It's too much!"

Confused, he countered, "You've been right there with me. For most of it," he added.

"Because of **you**!" she replied, sighing when his expression changed from perplexed to wounded.

"I didn't force you." It was almost a question.

"No," she told him carefully, "You didn't. But," she added, "I wouldn't have done it nearly as much, or even probably at all, if **you** weren't into it."

"The only reason you blazed, was because of **me**?" he asked, his eyes dropping back to his lap when she nodded slowly. "So, in a way, I **did** force you."

"No, Chandler," she insisted, "I don't think that, ok? I did it, to be closer to you. To share in your interest, because I care about you. There were a few times I did it, because I really wanted to, for the high of it, but, mostly, I just did it, because I wanted to be close to you."

"Fuck," he whispered, then dropped his face into his hands. "I'm so sorry," he said, the words muffled. "I had no idea, that was why you did it. I thought you **liked** doing it!" he added.

"I **did** like doing it," she sighed, "Just, not for the same reasons **you** did."

"You know that's **not** why I hang with you, right?" he asked, then lifted his face, and his eyes to meet hers. "Even if you **never** smoked it- Even if you never **tried** it, I would **still** want to spend time with you."

"I know," she answered. "I didn't do it because I felt pressured into it. I did it because I wanted to. But, now, I don't want to anymore."

"What are you saying?" he asked cautiously. Nervously. "Are you saying, you don't want to be… be my friend anymore?"

"No," she sighed, "I'm not saying that. I want you in my life, forever and always."

"Then, what are you saying?" he asked, just as warily.

Sighing, working up her nerve, she finally said, as she looked away, "I want you to quit."

"Completely?" he asked, and she scowled in response.

"Yes," she answered simply, then took in a shaky breath as she met his eyes again. His expression was impossible to read, which made her all the more anxious.

"I've been smoking weed since I was nine years old--"

"I know that, Chandler," she interrupted him, "But--"

"Monica," he cut her off, "Let me finish, please?" When she gestured for him to continue, he did. "I've been smoking weed since I was nine years old," he repeated. "Over a decade. That's a long fucking time," he added, then sighed. "The reasons why I started… I don't have reasons anymore, other than the fact that I like the high. But, as much as I like it, I like you more. **Much** more. If you want me to quit, I'll quit."

"Are you serious?" she asked, totally shocked, her expression reflecting that.

"Yes," he answered instantly. Easily.

"You would be willing to do that… for me?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Yes. And for **me**. It's not worth it… the high, isn't worth it, if it's going to hurt you. Or worry you. That would kill me more than years in jail would, believe me. When I was in that cell today," he shared, "All I kept thinking about, was how disappointed you were going to be. I wracked my brain, trying to figure out, who else I could call, cause I didn't want you to hate me."

"I would **never** hate you, Chandler. **Never**," she insisted, then moved from the coffee table to sit beside him.

Sighing, he pulled her to him, then closed his eyes and whispered, "Thank God. I wasn't scared of being in jail," he told her. "I was scared of losing you."

"You're not going to," she assured him. "I'm right here. I'm gonna help you through this," she added, draping her legs across his lap, then asked a moment later, "Are you gonna freak or something, for a while? Like, with, withdrawal or something?"

"No," he answered. "Coming down off weed, doesn't do that to you. You've gone weeks, right? Did **you** freak?"

"No, actually," she said, realizing he was right with slight surprise. "I, just, came down and never cared."

"There'ya go," he replied, pressing a gentle kiss into her hair. "I'll miss it, but, I won't freak from it. Harder to give up cigarettes," he laughed. "I should know! I did!"

"Are you going to go back to cigarettes?" she asked, smiling when he shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I'm done. Done looking for vices to get me through something that's been over with for a while now."

"Can I ask you a question, without you getting mad at me?" she whispered, almost suddenly, sighing when he nodded. "Are you just saying all this, or do you really mean it?"

"I really mean it," he answered, then shifted away and stared back at her pointedly. "I promise you, Mon, I'm done. And I think I've proven by now," he added, "I keep my promises." He smiled when she scoffed, and then laughed, before pulling her back against him.

"I don't think I've ever really been happy about that, till now," she said, with a teasing lilt, and he laughed as he shifted to rest his head against hers.

"I'm a man of my word, Monica," he told her seriously. "If I say I'm gonna quit, then, I'm gonna quit."

"I believe you," she whispered, then asked, nervously, "Do you want to sleep with me in my room? Instead of the couch? I won't be bad," she added abruptly.

"What about Nana?" he asked. "Would she… disapprove?"

"No," she answered confidently. "Nana adores you," she added.

"Which is surprising, after what I put you guys through tonight," he muttered, then added, "But, will she still, if she catches me in bed with her granddaughter?"

"She's not a prude, Chandler," she told him. "She's amazed I'm still a virgin! She lost hers at sixteen," she added, and he groaned.

"I didn't need to know that," he mumbled sarcastically, to which she laughed, then moved to leave his lap.

"C'mon," she urged, holding her hand out to him as she stood. "It'll be fine, I promise."

He smirked, took her outstretched hand, then pushed off the couch and followed her hesitantly into the bedroom. Just hours before, he had forced himself to leave her alone, both of them aroused and wanting. Did she do what he had asked of her? Did she think of him, and ease the ache? His heart raced at the thought.

Climbing into bed after her, they both settled in, pulling the blankets up around them as they snuggled into each other's arms. It was comfortable and not, all at the same time, and then his mind conjured up images. God, he was weak.

"Monica?"

"Yeah?"

Swallowing hard, he asked what he knew he shouldn't. "Did you think of me earlier?"

The question surprised her, and she could feel herself flush in response. "Yes," she answered in a whisper.

"Did it… feel good?" he asked, as he planted a soft kiss in her hair. He smiled when he heard her sigh, and felt her nod. "Good," he whispered. "I'm glad."

Recognizing the danger of the topic, knowing it would only lead to her throwing herself at him again, and humiliating herself, she decided to change the subject. She wanted to know anyway. Maybe he didn't want to discuss it, though. She certainly didn't want to upset him. Not after the night he'd had.

Then she remembered what he had said, during his brief phone call to her.

"_I can explain it all later, if you want me to."_

She decided to chance it. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," he answered easily.

Sighing, trying to find the right way of phrasing it, she finally asked, "What happened tonight? After you left?"

Purposefully leaving out the reason why, and the amount he had originally planned to buy, he told her, "After I left, I went to go see Jarod, to pick up. He was all in a panic, told me he didn't have anything to sell me, which is **not** the norm. I asked him what was going on, but he just told me to get my ass off his property, before all hell broke loose. I started bookin it, but, I wasn't fast enough. Police had him set up for a raid, and I fucking got caught in the middle of it! Thank God I wasn't carrying at the time, or my ass coulda been in **huge** trouble!"

"And that alone, doesn't tell you something, Chandler?" she asked, to which he sighed in response. "I'm not trying to harass you," she insisted, "But, what if Jarod hadn't known this was coming? What if he had sold to you, and it was **on** you when the police showed up?"

"I know, Mon," he sighed again. "Trust me, I know. I had a **lot** of time to think, in that cell," he added. "I ran the scenarios through my head. I **know** I was damn lucky."

"This was your wake up call, Chandler," she told him. "Your second chance. Like Nana said," she added, "Learn from it and move on."

"I'm going to," he assured her. "I'm done, I swear. Not just for **you**, but for me, too. A prison record is **not** what I want for my life."

"What **do** you want?" she asked curiously.

Sighing, pausing in thought for a moment, he eventually said, "I want a lot of things. Some of them, I know I'll never have, but, it doesn't stop me from wanting them. Other things, like becoming a writer, I think I actually have a shot at having."

"You have more than just a shot, Chandler," she assured him. "You have an amazing gift," she told him, to which he scoffed directly in response, as if he didn't truly believe it. She sighed. "Don't believe me?" she asked rhetorically, with a hint of indignation. "I was right about the 'A', wasn't I?"

"You were," he said with a smirk, "And I paid you well for being so, too."

"You mark my words!" she said adamantly, "One day, one of your novels is going to be on the bestsellers' list!"

Laughing, he asked, "Care to wager?"

"Ten thousand dollars!" she shot back playfully, and he laughed again.

"I was thinking more along the lines of, loser has to buy the winner a diamond necklace."

"If **you** win, you'd look awfully silly wearing a diamond necklace," she teased.

"Yeah, well, I'm kinda hoping I'll lose," he admitted.

"Cause that means you'll have a bestselling book!" she laughed, surprised when he shook his head in response.

"That would just be a perk," he said as he kissed her hair. "I'm hoping to lose, cause then I'll get to buy my favorite person in the whole world, a diamond necklace."

Touched, she whispered, "You always know just what to say."

"Always," he whispered back, then pulled her tighter as he nuzzled into her hair. "Goodnight, Monica," he said with a sigh.

"Yes," she sighed in return, "It is."

**XXX**

--The smell was unmistakable. Eggs. And, God, they smelled amazing. Enough to wake Chandler from his very sound sleep. He yawned and stretched, but startled as he did. Monica was missing from the bed. Having her in his arms, he'd never in his life had such a restful night. It felt natural. Right. Like something he could really get used to.

Stumbling out of the bedroom, he stopped short when two sets of eyes instantly darted over to him. One set, was amazing blue, bright and smiling, warmly staring back at him, like he was the most important person in the room. The other set, was older and wiser, also smiling, and attempting to make him feel at ease. He smirked uneasily at the attention.

"Good morning," he finally said, then stepped away from the door he was standing in front of to join them.

"Good morning, CB," Nana greeted him, pulling out a dining chair for him. "Come, sit! Breakfast is almost ready! How'd you sleep?"

Her early morning excitement brought a smile to his face. "I slept well, thanks," he returned politely, then took the seat she offered him.

"Yes, well, I'm sure Monica's bed **was** a bit more comfortable than the couch," she said with a knowing lilt, then gave his shoulder a pat as she immediately asked, "Orange juice?"

Nervous over her comment, his smile dropped, his eyes shifting to the back of Monica's head for a moment, as she continued cooking at the stove, before landing on the table in front of him. "I hope I didn't… upset you," he said apologetically. "I'm sure sorry if I did," he added, but Nana just laughed.

"Why on earth would **I** be upset?" she quipped. "It's not like you climbed into bed with **me**! Now, maybe if I was a few years younger…" She trailed off suggestively, but in a playful way, then set his glass of orange juice down before announcing, "I hear you made a decision last night!"

It took him a moment to process everything that had just been said. For an older woman, she sure moved fast, even if only in the conversational sense, and was sharp as a tack. "Um yeah, Nana, I did. I'm quitting weed."

"Wonderful!" she chirped. "Cute, funny, **smart** boy like you! Don't need it! Nope! Best decision you could make! Good for you! Eat your breakfast!"

Just then Monica set the plate in front of him, and he glanced at it briefly before slowly lifting his eyes to hers. No makeup, hair pulled back in a ponytail, a wide, happy smile on her face that just made her look all the more radiant.

"Thanks," he whispered, and her smile, if it were possible, grew.

"Ok!" Nana exclaimed, startling both of them, "This old coot needs a shower and a great big cup of coffee to start her day! Shower first!" she added, then shuffled off towards the bathroom, mumbling to herself as she disappeared inside and shut the door behind her.

"God, I love her," Chandler laughed, and Monica did too as she nodded, then she took the seat next to him at the table.

"Aren't **you** going to eat?" he asked her.

"In a minute," she answered. "I want to see what you think," she added, then her smile faded just slightly as she stared back at him.

Catching on, realizing she wanted to see what he thought of her cooking abilities, he smiled gently, then picked up his fork and gave the plate of food his full attention. How could something as simple as eggs look so amazing? He didn't know, but they did. To the side, were four little triangles of toast with butter, with the crusts cut off, and over in the corner, was a slice of cantaloupe.

He admired the presentation for a moment, then dipped his fork into the eggs and took his first bite.

She watched him closely, her full smile returning as he closed his eyes, appearing to be savoring the taste, and then he hummed.

"Oh my God, Monica," he whispered after swallowing, "These are incredible! How you can make something that comes out of a chicken's ass taste **this** good, I'll never know!"

Laughing, pleased, she pushed away from the table to go get herself a plate, calling over her shoulder, "I'm glad you like it."

"Like it?" he shot back, "I **love** it! Eggs are **usually** just eggs. You eat them cause they're eggs, and cause it's breakfast. **These**, are **brilliant**!"

She rolled her eyes playfully at his overly enthusiastic praise, then, as she retook her seat, smiled back at him gratefully. "You can take it down a notch, Chandler," she teased. "A simple 'these are good' woulda been fine."

"If they **had** been just 'fine', then, sure! But, **these**, are better than 'fine'! Believe me!"

"Only if **you** believe, that you're a brilliant writer!" she countered, cocking an eyebrow and smirking when he laughed.

"Ok," he said, "I believe that **you** believe it. How's that?"

"It's a start," she replied, then shrugged before digging into her breakfast.

They ate in silence for a few moments only, before Chandler whispered, "I enjoyed sleeping next to you last night." She paused noticeably in mid-bite.

"I did, too," she admitted, then resumed eating, but slower than before.

They had slept together in the same bed before, back at his dorm, when Ross was staying over at Carol's, but that had felt different, somehow. The night before, seemed deeper. More meaningful. Like they really were a couple, in a committed relationship. Securely like a friend, gently like a lover, he'd held her for all of the night and morning. Physically and emotionally entwined, it took effort to disentangle herself, when leaving his arms. She didn't want to wake him. She didn't want to leave.

"I missed you, when I woke up, and you weren't there," he told her, watching her closely for her reaction.

"Sorry," she apologized, her focus still on her food, "Nana was up. I could hear her in the kitchen, so I got up to help her."

"That's ok," he assured her. "I was just letting you know, that I missed you, is all."

Nodding, she quickly asked as she changed the subject, "What are your plans today?"

"Don't really have any," he answered, "Why?"

"Nana wanted you to stay," she said, then finally lifted her eyes from her plate to gaze over at him, adding, "If you don't mind."

"After what I put her, and **you**, through last night, waking everyone at that insane hour! I'm all yours!" he exclaimed, then asked, "What does she need me for?"

"The movers are coming today," she answered, "To pick up her stuff, and, ya'know, head for Florida with it. And, well, she's worried that… two women alone…"

When she trailed off, he chuckled. "So, you guys need me to stand guard and protect your virtue, is that it?"

"I can protect my own," she shot back, but with a playful lilt, "But, Nana is worried," she added, with a touch more seriousness.

"No problem," he said with a smirk, lightheartedly, "Consider her fully protected against all would-be attackers!"

**XXX**

--The actual moving of the boxes and items took less than an hour, and went off without a hitch, what with the two burly moving men and lack of furniture to be taken. The only snag was trying to get the large armoire out of the bedroom, which was then solved when Chandler suggested they take the door off the hinges, to free up an extra inch and a half of space. Of course, the hired movers then couldn't be bothered to put the door back on, so Chandler, with Monica's help, ended up doing it.

Just over an hour later, though, and all was back to normal. But with the apartment looking emptier with the absence of boxes, it just served to remind Monica that everything was about to change. Nana would be leaving the very next day, and Monica would be living alone for the first time in her life.

"Well," Chandler announced, scooting to the edge of the couch, "Now that **that's** over with, and my duty to protect your virtues is over, let's say we order Chinese! My treat," he added, in a tone that dangled the offer enticingly.

"Wonderful!" Nana replied with her typical enthusiasm, and Chandler grinned as he pushed to standing.

"Wonderful!" he repeated, then asked, "What would you like, Nana?"

"Tangerine chicken and a little lomein noodles is fine by me, CB," she answered, and Chandler nodded as he turned his attention to Monica.

"Mon? Your order, please?" he asked, smiling, but she only sat silent. "Mon? You ok?"

"It's almost here," she near-whispered, glancing up at him only briefly before staring back at nothing. "Starting tomorrow, I'm going to be alone," she added, her voice small and distant.

"Uh-oh," he said, almost to himself, "Reality crash." He quickly dropped back into his seat beside her, turned sideways to face her, then took her hands in his. "Mon, you're not going to be alone. You're just going to be **living** alone! And, that's gonna be ok! If you ever need **anything**, you know I'll come right over! And Ross, too!"

"That's not the same," she muttered. "I've never been alone longer than a few days!" she added anxiously. "And you're hard to get! People don't always answer that stupid payphone in the hall!"

"I'll get a pager," he replied, smirking when she looked up at him in surprise. "I'll get a pager, Mon," he repeated, "And then you'll be able to get me **easily**, twenty four/seven, ok?"

She stared back at him blankly for a moment, then finally asked, "Aren't those expensive?"

Tossing her a joking half glare, he quipped, "Don't make me thump you!" to which she laughed, and then he did, too, before gathering her into his arms. "I **promise** you," he said assuredly, "You're gonna be fine. Better than fine! And you **know**," he added, somewhat playfully, "I always keep my promises."

"I'll order the Chinese food," Nana offered, smiling to herself as she pushed off the chair to the left of the couch and shuffled towards the phone in the kitchen. "I know what Monica likes," she said, then asked, "What do **you** like, CB?"

"Same as Monica," he answered, politely but distractedly, his attention more on holding and comforting Monica, and Nana smirked.

"Hmmm," she hummed, her barely-there smile growing as she reached the counter, and then she added under her breath, "That certainly doesn't surprise me."

"I'm sorry, Nana," he called out to her, "I didn't catch that. Did you say something- ask me something?"

"No, no," Nana returned with a dismissive wave, "Just talkin to myself. Go back to squeezin my granddaughter."

He could literally hear her smirking, and he shifted back just enough to initiate eye contact with Monica, to see if she had caught it, too. By the expression she wore, he knew she had.

"Sorry," she apologized, inaudibly, and with a sheepish smile, but he just shook his head and pulled her back into his embrace.

"Do you talk to Nana a lot," he whispered, "About… about us?"

Nodding, she whispered back, "She's the only one I really **can** talk to, ya'know? Sorry," she apologized again, but he just chuckled.

"It's not a problem," he assured her. "It's good that you have someone to talk to," he added. "Wish I did sometimes."

"Then you can talk to me, too," Nana chimed in unexpectedly, as she made her way back to her seat. "Chinese food is on the way, so, while we wait, let's chat!"

Chandler laughed, somewhat nervously, then pulled back out of Monica's arms and sat back against the sofa cushions. "I wouldn't even know where to begin," he sighed, then glanced around the room, before landing his gaze on the coffee table in front of him.

Sighing also, Nana asked, "Why complicate something **so** simple?"

"I didn't complicate it," he answered. "It complicated itself," he added, grasping her hand gently when Monica slipped hers under his.

"An outsider's opinion shouldn't matter, in the grand scheme of things," Nana offered, and Chandler scoffed.

"**That**," he told her, "Is **far** from simple."

"Gifts in life, are hard to come by sometimes," she said with a sigh, after a nod and a moment's thought. "What the two of you have, is a gift, CB. Don't let one man's opinion stop you from accepting it."

Her ability to be so straightforward while being tactfully vague impressed him. "It's not just an opinion," he sighed. "He's very much against the idea," he added.

"He'll get over it," she insisted, but he shook his head in response.

"I don't think so," he replied, almost bitterly, but respectfully.

"Right," she returned, slightly sarcastic, "Cause, what do I know, hmmm? I'm just an old coot," she added, smirking over at him when he finally made eye contact.

"I **don't** think that, Nana," he insisted, "But, you haven't seen him freak! He will **never** get over it," he added, then sighed as he looked away.

"I can't tell you what to do, CB," she told him, "And I certainly can't tell you how to **feel**, but, I **am** going to give you a few words of advice." When she paused, his attention was back on her. "Life is short. Seems like only yesterday, that I was **your** age! I can't go back, and take advantage of opportunities lost. It's too late for that. For me. Don't make the same mistakes, CB. You'll only live to regret them later," she added, then sighed heavily and dropped her gaze to her lap.

"Who was he, Nana?" Monica asked carefully, and Nana sighed again.

"Met him at Java Joe's," she answered. "This coffeehouse we all used to hang out at. Handsome, funny, sweet. Remind you of anyone?" she added as she looked straight at Chandler, then looked away again as she continued. "I was dating his best friend at the time, and he refused to dishonor him like that. Said it wouldn't be right. Begged me not to break up with him, so, I didn't."

"Grandpa?" Monica asked, surprised. "You were dating grandpa, when you fell in love with the other guy?"

"Yes," she answered. "I loved your grandpa very much, don't get me wrong," she added, "But, I always wondered, how things would have been, if we had just **tried**."

"You should go find him!" Monica announced. "Maybe you could try **now**," she added, but Nana shook her head.

"I **did** try, a few years after your grandpa passed away, but, he had passed away a few years prior. About the same time as your grandpa. Cancer," she added with another heavy sigh.

"I'm **so** sorry," Chandler offered, but Nana waved dismissively, and then forced a smile onto her face.

"What's done is done," she said as she moved to leave her seat. "No point crying over spilt milk," she added, then started off towards her room. "Let me know when the food gets here, will'ya? I'm gonna go gather up the last of my things."

"Sure, Nana," Monica called back, then sighed as she watched her grandmother disappear into her room. "I never knew that," she said quietly to Chandler, a slight sadness in her tone, and he gathered her to him in response.

"That really sucks," he added softly, kissing her hair, his mind churning over all Nana had to say, silently.

"Maybe we should take her story, and learn from it," she suggested cautiously, sighing when he did first. She knew what he was going to say.

"The situations aren't really the same though, are they?" he whispered, then added with a firmer voice, "You're not **dating** Ross, he's your brother. I wouldn't want to cross him either way, but, still, that makes all this more complicated."

"Do you think the guy ever regretted it, like Nana did?" she wondered.

Closing his eyes, he whispered, "I'd bet money, that he did."

"In forty or fifty years, do you think **you** will? Regret things?"

"I already do," he admitted, then sighed as he nuzzled into her hair. "But that doesn't change the fact of things," he added.

"Do you think we'll drift apart as friends?" she asked. "Like he and Nana did?"

"God, I hope not," he whispered. "I need you in my life, Mon. **Need**."

"I wonder why they did," she sighed. "Drift apart, I mean," she added.

"Maybe it was just too hard to be around each other," he offered, "Knowing they could never be together. Which is why I keep saying, we need to get past this. We need to find a way, to be around each other, without wanting."

"I don't think I can," she whispered, and he immediately pulled away, staring back at her with near-frantic eyes.

"Don't say that, Monica, please," he begged of her. "We **have** to! I can't lose you! If we can't get over this, we **will** drift apart, and, God, I know I won't survive it!"

"We'll just have to promise each other, that we won't let that happen," she told him, tears in her eyes, but then she semi-quipped, "I can keep promises, too, ya'know!" and he laughed in response.

"I promise you," he said in all seriousness, "I will **never** drift away from you, as long as you want me in your life."

"I will **always** want you in my life," she assured him, "So, I guess we won't have to worry about that."

His heart fluttered to a stop, then lurched back to life, all within seconds, and he nodded slight, then swallowed hard, before raking his fingers into her hair.

She knew what was coming, and she almost hurt from the adrenalin coursing through her. His lips brushed hers softly, before pressing firmly, and she sunk into the feeling of it, lost to it, found in it, craving it and all he was willing to give her.

The knock at the door startled them, and they separated, but held each other's gaze for several long seconds, breathing heavily, drinking in the understanding that only the two of them could truly grasp.

"Food's here," Chandler finally whispered, and she nodded, but remained locked in his stare. Sighing, he pulled his attention away and to the floor, before muttering, "I'll get it," and then pushed off the couch to stand.

"I thought I heard the door!" Nana announced as she emerged from her bedroom, but upon seeing the tears in Monica's eyes, she dropped her smile and sighed, then stepped over to her granddaughter and wrapped an arm around her. "Monica?" she whispered, knowing she would understand what she was asking.

She glanced at Nana briefly, then shook her head and buried her face in her grandmother's shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Sweetie," Nana whispered, circling her arms around her and holding her as she cried softly.

Chandler turned away from the door, and when he saw Monica in Nana's embrace, he sighed guiltily and looked away, placing the bags of Chinese takeout on the table as he asked, "Is anyone still hungry?"

"I know I am, CB!" Nana answered brightly, then encouraged Monica to walk with her towards the table as she added, "We **all** need to eat! Starving ourselves doesn't fix problems, it only causes new ones."

"I'll eat," Monica muttered, then stepped up to grab a paper plate and a set of chopsticks. She startled and gasped, when Chandler abruptly took the items from her hands, set them down, then pulled her into his arms.

"You will always be the most important person in my life," he whispered. "Anything else, is not nearly as important as **that** fact. Remember that."

"You always know just what to say," she whispered, almost whimpering, and he nodded as he held her tighter.

"Always," he whispered back, then kissed her hair quickly before releasing her from his arms.

"Open your fortune cookies," Nana said as she handed one to each of them.

"You're supposed to do that at the end of the meal," Chandler replied, but took the plastic-wrapped cookie anyway.

"She likes to do it before," Monica explained, immediately opening hers and breaking into it. "She likes to ponder it while she eats."

Shrugging, Chandler opened his as well, then cracked it in half and pulled the little slip of paper out. He gasped a second later.

"What?" Monica asked, confused, but he just scoffed and handed it over. She took it with a sense of caution, though why she did, she wasn't quite sure. Something just told her, she was about to be shocked, or surprised. Her eyes stayed on him for a moment or two, then she dropped them to the paper and read it out loud. "Life is short. Grab your opportunities while you can."

**XXX**

--The rest of the day was spent telling stories and laughing. Nana even regaled them with the tale of the time she was arrested for indecent exposure, when she streaked across the park on a dare.

"You were a little bit wild, weren't you, Nana?" Chandler asked, laughing, but Nana scoffed in reply.

"That little story is just the tip of the iceberg, CB," she returned with a wave of her hand, then announced, "And on that note, I will say goodnight."

As she moved to stand, Chandler did, too, then he stepped over to her when she was up and wrapped his arms gently around her. "I guess this is goodbye, really," he said, "Since I won't be back here tomorrow, till after you're gone," he added, and she nodded as she gave his back a few hardy pats.

"Guess it is," she replied brightly, as if to imply that she didn't want a tearful goodbye scene.

"I wish I had gotten to spend more time with you," he said, picking up on her cue and keeping his tone light. "You're a fun old coot," he quipped, laughing when she did.

"And you're a good man, Chandler Bing," she returned as she pushed out of his arms, adding with a touch of seriousness, "Be with her, in any way that you can, but, just, be with her."

Nodding, his smile dropping, he whispered, "I will. I give you my word."

"Good!" she exclaimed, then added, "I know you will."

"Have fun in Florida, Nana," he said, then smirked as he added, "With your clock."

Nana laughed, then nodded as she turned towards her room. "Night, kids," she called over her shoulder, then disappeared and closed the door behind her.

"God, I love her," Chandler laughed, but when he looked to Monica, just after saying it, there was only the slightest hint of a sad smile on her face. "You ok?" he asked, concerned, to which she shook her head.

"I'm gonna miss her, Chandler," she whispered, then the tears dropped to her cheeks and he immediately gathered her into his arms.

"I know," he soothed. "I'm going to, too," he added, then suggested, in a slightly upbeat tone, "Maybe we could go visit her or something, ya'know? Like, for Spring Break or something! We'll be the only college kids down there **not** participating in wet T-shirt contests and keg parties!"

When she laughed, he pulled back and grinned, but their smiles faded as he began to slowly brush the back of his fingers across her cheek.

After a moment, she cleared her throat nervously, then asked, "When are you coming by tomorrow?"

"Right after class," he answered, finally dropping his hand from her face. "Do you want me to meet you **here**, or at your school?" he asked, the slight waver in his voice showing his uncomfortableness.

"School," she answered simply, then added, "We'll walk here together."

Nodding, he whispered, "K," then shifted his gaze towards the door. "I should get going," he muttered, then turned to do so. "I have an assignment to finish up, before tomorrow," he added.

"Can I ask a favor, before you go?" she asked as she followed him, and he nodded in answer, right before reaching the door. He turned the knob, yanked it open, then stepped out into the hall before turning to face her.

"Anything," he answered, then smiled gently back at her.

"Will you give me a little kiss goodbye?" she asked of him, then began chewing on her bottom lip nervously as she awaited his answer.

"A **little** one?" he asked with an arched eyebrow, his smile growing as he cupped her cheek and ran his thumb across her lip, to stop her biting at it.

"I didn't think you'd agree to more than that," she whispered, already feeling dizzy, just from his simple touch and the anticipation.

Nodding, his hand left its position as his fingers pushed into her hair, and she nearly fell into him as he leaned in to grant her request.

It was exactly what she had asked for, and nothing more. Soft, gentle, but brief.

"You will **always** be the most important person in my world," he whispered, inches from her lips. "Remember that," he added, then shifted away and stared back at her.

It was then that she realized, he would never fully be hers. Nana's story didn't change his mind. Wisdom from a fortune cookie didn't. Even his own desires, did nothing to sway him. It was over. She would have to accept it, and move on.

"Ditto," she whispered back, then forced a smile as she added, "Guess I'll see'ya tomorrow, then."

"Yep. I won't be square," he laughed, and her smile turned genuine.

"Stand me up?" she asked with mock irritation. "You better not!"

He laughed and nodded, then dropped his eyes to the floor, gaining seriousness as he asked of her, "Think of me tonight?"

"Always," she answered. "Will you?"

"Always. Night," he whispered, and she nodded, then watched as he walked away.

It was only after she closed the door, that she allowed the tears to fall.

It was over.

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

Well, I didn't get 10 reviews, I got 8. And at least one person thinks the story in general is a bit repetitive, or at least, that's what was implied. Oh well. Some of you love it, and enough to leave glowing reviews, and believe me, that completely thrills me! Thanks **so much** for the love and feedback!

Ms.SJ: You crack me up!

Ok, so, chapter 9 is done, but not yet beta-ed… that should be done tonight though. It's longer than this chapter, but shorter than the longest chapter posted. So, it shouldn't be too long a time, before it's posted. I really struggled with chapter 9, because it had to cover a lot of elements. The elements are covered in a subtle way, so, when you read it (the next chapter), really think as you do.

Chapter 10, like I said before, will be the last chapter, and is already mostly written, just all (or mostly) in dialog. I have to go back and fill in 'scenery', but that won't take me long.

I have tons of ideas for an epilogue, so, if you want to see one, drop a review and let me know, k?

You know what's annoying? When people call your cell phone 16 times, at 6 A.M., even **after** you've told them each and every time that they have the wrong number. (sigh)… At least my ringer is the 'Friends' theme (smirk).

Ok, so, let's surpass last chapter's total reviews, shall we? Click and leave your thoughts, please!

MTLBYAKY


	9. Chapter 9

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter Nine**

**XXX**

--She saw him standing in the distance, leaning against the pillar near the entrance, his stance the absolute depiction of casual and unconcerned, and both her heart and steps towards him picked up pace.

Finally he saw her, through the crowd, her smile growing when they locked eyes, and his heart lurched to life as she approached.

"Have you been waiting long?" she called out as she neared, and he shrugged in response.

"About ten minutes," he answered. "No biggie."

When his lips touched hers in an innocent, friendly kiss, she nearly forgot all about her surroundings, and the decision she had come to the night before.

"I thought about you last night," he whispered in her ear after pulling her into his arms. "Did you think about me?" he asked, and she nodded weakly, then hummed in the affirmative.

How was she supposed to remain strong, and walk the line, when he asked her questions like that? When just the simplest of touches, from his lips or hands, brought forth a wealth of emotions that left her breathless? It was going to be an interesting day and a half.

"Hey, Monica! Is that your boyfriend?"

Monica recognized the voice immediately, and she rolled her eyes while her back was still to her, before pushing out of Chandler's arms and turning to face her.

"Hey, Frannie," Monica greeted her politely, ignoring the question she'd asked and going straight for benign pleasantries. "What's up?"

"Oh, nothing much," Frannie answered, her perpetual smile growing, "Just, a bunch of us are gonna head down to that restaurant and pub Mr. Buchanan was telling us about! You and your **boyfriend** wanna join us?" she asked, the emphasis on the word 'boyfriend' showing she wasn't about to drop the inquiry, until she got the answer to the previously posed question.

Sighing, not at all willing to go into explanations to define her and Chandler's relationship, she simply stated, "Can't. Sorry."

"Oh, that's too bad," Frannie replied, her tone remaining ever chipper. "You and your **boyfriend** have other plans?"

There was no escaping it. The woman wasn't going to let up, until Monica answered her. "He's, um… he's not--"

"Feeling up to going out," Chandler interrupted, then quickly put his arm around Monica and kissed her temple. "We have plans at **home**," he added, then waggled his eyebrows suggestively at the intrusive woman. The implication was caught.

"Oh!" she chirped excitedly. "Lucky!" she shot at Monica. "Wish **I** had a boyfriend!" she added, and Monica bit her tongue to stop from muttering, 'me, too'.

"Maybe you'll meet a guy at the pub," Chandler offered, a fake cordial smile plastered on his face. "Only one way to find out!" he added, and Monica stifled a laugh when she easily recognized what he was hinting at.

"Oh, I've done the pub scene," Frannie replied, oblivious. "You know, bars, clubs, whatever. Seems like guys are only after one thing, though, ya'know? And the pickup lines! God! **So** cheesy! Like those would **actually** work!"

As the woman continued to ramble on, sharing her life story of dating as if they actually cared, Chandler and Monica discreetly glanced at one another. Subtlety was obviously lost on Frannie. A more direct approach was needed, or they were going to get stuck listening to her carry on for an hour, at least.

"Yes, men are swine," Chandler cut in, "You should become a lesbian. Less headaches and penises to worry about." When Frannie's jaw dropped open, he hid a smirk, then immediately announced, "Nice to meet you, but, we really need to get going. Bye!"

Without waiting for a response from the stunned woman, he directed Monica away quickly, his arm still around her and draped across her shoulder. Pulling her tighter to him, he whispered when they were several steps away, "That woman needs Prozac," to which Monica burst out laughing, and Chandler grinned widely when she did.

"She's a nice enough person," Monica defended her, "But she talks **constantly**, and thinks she knows **everything**!"

"She didn't know if I was your **boyfriend**," he pointed out, using the same inflection on the word Frannie had before. "She was **so** trying to fish for the answer to that," he added with a laugh, then dropped his arm off her shoulder and reached for her hand.

"Why did you imply you were?" she asked curiously, and a little bit nervously.

His smile faded, and then he shrugged. "Seemed like a good idea at the time. Should I **not** have?" he asked.

She shook her head, which really didn't answer his question, but then she said, "I liked it," and his smile returned.

"I liked it, too," he whispered, then entwined his fingers with hers and gave a gentle squeeze as he added, "She doesn't know Ross, right?"

"No," she answered with a sigh. "And I doubt we'll ever be close enough as friends for me to introduce them."

What her words didn't express, her tone did. "You're upset," he stated, then gave her hand a tug and pulled in front of her to face her. "What's wrong?" he asked. When she looked away and sighed, he did, too. "Monica, talk to me," he asked of her. "What did I do?"

"I'm fine, Chandler," she sighed again, then took a step to move past him, but he matched her, preventing her from walking away.

"I know better than that," he told her, somewhat firmly, then asked again, "What's wrong?"

She pulled her hand free from his grasp, then wrapped her arms around herself, and by those two actions, he knew he wasn't going to like what was about to be said.

"I came to a decision last night," she said, continuing to avoid his gaze, then fell silent and waited for his response.

Not knowing exactly what to say, he drawled simply, "Ok…"

"You were right," she informed him, "It only makes things harder, toying with the line. We need to walk the straight and narrow," she added, then finally met his eyes. "We need to stop torturing ourselves, and try to find a way to be around each other, so that we don't eventually drift away from each other. All the touching, and the… and whatever else, needs to stop."

It felt like his heart was being ripped from his chest. But, she was right. He knew she was right. "Yeah," he agreed simply, sadly, then shifted his weight anxiously from one leg to the other as he asked, "Did you still want me to stay with you tonight? And tomorrow?"

"Yes," she answered instantly, "But I want us to use this time, to learn to be around each other. As friends," she added, and he nodded in understanding.

Taking the first step in heading towards her apartment again, he asked as she quickly moved to follow, "Do you know if Nana got there ok?"

"Not yet," she answered. "She was supposed to leave me a message on the answering machine, as soon as she got to her condo," she added, then sighed.

He could hear the worry in the sound of her sharp exhale, and he wanted to wrap his arm around her, and assure her that Nana was fine, but he stopped himself. No touching, is what she had asked for. Quitting weed cold turkey would be a walk in the park, in comparison. He was addicted to her touch. Addicted to touching her. The withdrawal symptoms were going to be hell.

"Then, let's head straight for the apartment," he suggested, "And we'll worry about dinner **after** you hear that she's safe and sound, ok?"

The way he phrased it, essentially stating that Nana was completely fine, and had already left the message proving that, brought a smile to her face. "You always know just what to say," she whispered, and he smiled in return.

"Always," he replied, then added, "Someone told me once, that **that** was the sign of a good writer."

Smirking, she asked playfully, "Finally believe that, do you?"

"Didn't say I believe it," he shot back, suppressing a laugh, "I said, someone said it."

"Ah," she teased, "Well, this 'someone' sounds like a very wise individual."

"She is," he agreed, "And so much more. She is funny, beautiful, intriguing, kind, supportive, loving…" He trailed off, then sighed as he added, "And I adore her, with every ounce of life that I have. So much so, that I'm willing to keep my hands to myself, forever, and never touch her again, simply because that's the way she wants it."

"It's not what she wants," she told him, "But she knows, the want will never go away, if he continues to touch her, even innocently. Because every time he does, her whole body tingles, and it's impossible to even see the line, let alone walk it, when she's feeling like that."

"And while he understands that," he replied, "It's hard for him, because touching her, even innocently, is better than anything else he could imagine in this whole world."

"It's hard for her, too," she insisted. "Don't think it's easy, cause it's far from it. But he's the one that keeps saying, that they have to walk the line, and be good, and she can't even begin to do that, if he keeps evoking her to want."

"He's sorry he hurt her," he whispered, and she nodded in response.

"She knows he is. And she's sorry, too," she added, "For her part in it. For throwing herself at him, and for making him want her."

"Wanting her is a natural instinct to him," he said softly. "Like breathing," he added.

"It is for her, too," she whispered, adding, "That's why it has to stop. They'll never get to that place, of just friendship, if the touching and toying with the line continues."

"He'll be good," he promised. "The last thing he wants, is to cause her pain, or risk losing her."

"He won't lose her," she assured him. "She'll always be in his life. She would die, slowly each day, each day he wasn't in it. But, she feels like she's dying right now, too, not being able to show him, how much she cares about him. Every time he's pushed her away, she's felt a little closer to death. Death would be better, than living like that," she added, and he stepped around to in front of her again, but held back from touching her.

"Don't talk like that, please," he begged of her, stopping the word play of using themselves in the third person and admitting, "If you died, I swear, I'd put a gun to my head, Monica! I swear I would!"

"I'm not talking about killing myself, Chandler," she sighed.

"Death would be better than living like that," he said, repeating her words. "That's what you said," he challenged her. When she looked away, he stomped his foot to regain her attention. "Damnit, Monica, look at me!" The shock and pain was clearly visible in her eyes, as she met his once again. "I never want to hear you talk like that again, do you hear me?" he scolded her. "Are you **trying** to kill me?!"

"Of course not," she whispered, forcing herself to keep his gaze, even through the hurt and confusion he was showing. "I'm sorry," she apologized, "Don't be mad. Please, don't be mad at me."

"I'm not fucking mad!" he shouted. "I'm fucking frustrated!"

"I didn't say it to frustrate you," she said, near tears. "I'm sorry I said it," she added, and then the tears did fall, but she quickly swiped them away, hoping he wouldn't notice.

"Fuck!" he yelled, turning his back on her for only a moment, before spinning back around again to face her. "And now you're crying! And I can't even fucking **hold** you! Or comfort you! Cause **that** will cause you even **more** pain!"

She launched into his arms, almost setting him off balance, and he quickly gathered her to him, holding her as tightly as he could, struggling to be as close to her as possible.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, "I just thought, it would make it better, in the long run, if we walked the line, and didn't step over it. That's not what I want, Chandler," she told him, allowing herself to cry, not even attempting to hide the fact that she was from him. "You **know** that's not what I want," she added, and he nodded against her.

"I'm sorry," he apologized with a calm, soothing tone. "I'm sorry I yelled, and I'm sorry I made you cry. I'm sorry my touch causes you so much pain," he added, then he shifted away just slightly, and brushed the tears from her face. "I can't **not** touch you, Monica," he whispered, as his thumb continued to caress her cheek. "I've tried. God knows I've tried, but I just, **can't**. I'm weak and pathetic--"

"You're not," she said, cutting him off. "Or if you are," she added, "I am, too."

"So," he asked cautiously, "Where does that leave us?"

"I don't even know anymore," she answered honestly. "I know what I want," she told him. "I know what we can't have, but, I don't know where the line is anymore, or how to walk it. I'm sick of walking it," she added, sighing in frustration, "But I know it's important to you, so, I've been trying to."

"I know," he sighed, pulling her back into his arms. "I'm sorry this is so complicated. I would give everything I have, to simplify it."

"I think the only way to simplify it, is to **try**," she said as she pushed out of his arms. "We need to **try**, to be around each other, and **not** touch each other. Maybe it won't make a damn bit of difference," she added, "But, I think we need to **try**, at least, ya'know?"

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he hung his head and nodded, then whispered, "I can try."

"Do you… still want to come over?" she asked hesitantly, "Or would the temptation be too much?"

"I want to come over," he answered. "I **want** to spend time with you. And, I promised you I would," he added, then assured her, "I'll be good," and she laughed.

"That's **my** line," she quipped, and he grinned back at her in response.

"So, say it," he teased, and she smirked as she gave a little jerk of her head, implying they should get moving again, which he picked up on and started walking.

"I'll be good," she said, and he nodded as he bumped into her shoulder with his, playing with her. When she laughed again, he smiled.

"So," he asked casually, trying to keep the lighter mood that had started continuing, "What's on the agenda for the evening?"

"Actually," she answered, "I **did** have an idea for that."

"Yeah? And that is?" he asked.

Smirking, she said, "You'll see."

**XXX**

--Monica sighed with relief as she hit stop on the answering machine, then smiled back at Chandler.

"I **told** you all would be fine!" he reminded her. "She's safe and sound, and is obviously **very** happy with her new condo!"

"So, I'm a worrier!" she shot back jokingly. "Sue me!"

"Think I'll wait till you're a famous chef," he quipped. "I'll get more in the settlement," he added with a smirk, and she rolled her eyes.

"Mmmhmm," she hummed, then smirked as well as she headed for her room.

"Where'ya goin?" he asked, watching her leave as he moved towards the couch.

"You'll see," she called back, disappearing from view.

"Does this have to do with what's on the agenda for the evening?" he asked, but he received no answer. "Need some help?" he then asked, but she reappeared a moment later, shaking her head. "Ok," he announced playfully, "Big box and wide grin… What exactly **do you** have planned, Geller?"

Her grin grew, then turned a little bit mischievous. "Mom gave me my baby book, and a bunch of photo albums," she told him, then pulled open the box and peeked inside. "Wanna see?" she asked, and he immediately perked up and scooted to the edge of the couch.

"Hell, yeah!" he exclaimed, reaching inside to snag whatever his hand could first grab. "Finally!" he added, "The **real** Monica! Exposed!"

"Yeah," she muttered sarcastically, "There are none of **those** kind of pictures."

Smirking, he patted the seat beside him, inviting her to join him, then, when she did, he flipped open the photo album he had snagged from the box blindly and dropped his attention to the first page. "Ok," he asked, "How old are you here?"

She studied it for a moment, then answered, "Six. This was at my kindergarten graduation."

"Awww," he cooed playfully, then tapped the next picture. "How old?"

"Um… nine. Ish. Summer vacation, Rachel's pool."

"So, you've known her a long time then," he semi-asked, and she nodded.

"Met in kindergarten," she answered, then pointed to the next picture. "Halloween. I went as a bride."

"Is that Rachel?" he asked, squinting at the somewhat blurry image. "Behind you? Holding your train? As… Wonderwoman?" he added, laughing.

"Yeah," she chuckled, then shrugged and flipped the page. "Ok," she said with a sigh, "These are **so** out of order. I'm about seven here, playing make believe tea party."

"Oh my God," he laughed, "Is that **Ross**? In a **dress**?"

"Yeah," she answered, laughing as well. "He used to do that **a lot**."

"Oh my God, you have **got** to let me have this!" he asked of her. "I could do **so** much evil with this!"

She rolled her eyes, pulled back the plastic, and gently removed it from the sticky page. "Just don't tell him **I** gave it to you," she told him. "Tell him you stole it, or something. When I wasn't looking," she added, and he laughed.

"You got it!" he promised, then set it aside and brought his attention back to the album. "Is this… you guys playing football?"

"Yeah," she confirmed with a nod. "We used to play, every Thanksgiving. Till I broke Ross' nose," she added, almost guiltily. "We weren't allowed to play after that."

"Allowed?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Our parents," she explained, then dropped the subject there and turned the page. "This is at my Bat Mitzvah."

"You're Jewish?" he asked.

Nodding, she answered, "Half. My dad's side. This is at junior high graduation," she said as she pointed to another picture. "And, this one, I was ten, with my dog ChiChi."

"Same dog that's in your wallet?" he asked, and she nodded, turned the page again, but then groaned and quickly flipped it back. "What?" he asked, confused.

"So much for there not being any **exposed** pictures of me," she muttered.

Catching on, he fought to turn the page back, but she strained to keep him from doing it, then they both started laughing.

"C'mon, Mon, I want to see it!" he announced, but she just shook her head and struggled to pull the photo album away from him.

Clutching the album to his stomach one handed, he grabbed her wrist and pried her hand from the book, then launched himself to the other side of the couch and quickly began to flip to find the page. Not ready to give up the fight, she threw herself on top of him, tackling him, then attempted to reach past him to snag it away, but he tucked it under himself and flattened himself against it.

"Uhn-uh," he laughed, "You're **not** getting it away from me **that** easily!"

"You can't very well see it like **this**!" she shot back, also laughing. "You may as well give up! Cause I can stay like this all night!" she added.

"So can **I**!" he countered, then told her, "C'mon! You started this! I wanna see! How old **are** you in it, anyway?"

"Seven or eight," she answered, then tried again futilely to snatch it from under him. "Give it back, Chandler!" she ordered, but he just laughed.

"No way, Geller! Seeing this picture has become my new mission in life!" he added, laughing again when she scoffed.

"I will **pay** you to give it back!" she said, trying to strike a bargain, but he just shook his head emphatically.

"I don't need your money!" he shot back. "I have **tons**, remember?"

"Fuck!" she cursed, then laughed. "Fine!" she asked, "Then, what **do** you want?"

"To see the picture!" he told her, and she growled jokingly in frustration. "Mon," he said, with nary an ounce of humor in his tone, "Just, let me see it, ok? I swear, I won't laugh. I won't say a word," he promised. "Just a quick glance, ok?"

He could feel her tension ease, and he could sense she was about to cave.

"It's just me, in the tub," she told him, her voice almost meek. "Why would you even want to see it?"

Shrugging first, he turned his head so he could just see her, though barely, and answered, "I'm curious."

Sighing, she asked, "You won't laugh? Or say even **one** word?"

"I promise," he assured her, then smirked as she climbed off him.

"No smirking, either!" she demanded of him, and he wiped the half grin off his face.

He sat up slowly, watching her out of his peripheral vision as he relocated the page, then forced himself to show no emotion as he gazed down on it. She was a little chunky, but not really fat. Could've been baby fat, still, if she was only seven or eight. But, either way, she was adorable, with her hair wet and hanging partially in her face, and her wide smile, like she was actually happy about bathing.

"Seven or eight?" he asked simply, and she narrowed her eyes on him as she nodded. He nodded in return, then tapped the next picture. "How old were you here?"

Bringing her attention back to the book, and where his finger was pointing, she said, "Fifteen. I had just gotten my permit to drive," she added.

"I remember when I got my permit," he shared, closing the book, but keeping his finger in the place so he could return to the page easily. "I was home from school, on summer break, and the limo driver took me down to take the test. He let me drive the limo home," he added with a smile, "Which I don't think the permit technically covered, but, he still let me. It was cool."

"Your mom didn't take you?" she asked, somewhat surprised. "Or your dad?" she added.

Shaking his head, he muttered, "Dad was in Vegas, and Mom was on a book tour."

"Did they go to **any** of the important stuff?" she asked, and he shrugged in response.

"A few," he answered. "Graduation. My dad came to a few of my swim meets. But, God," he added, "I wish he hadn't."

"How come?" she asked curiously.

Groaning softly, he answered, "He used to come, dressed as a different Hollywood starlet. One time," he added, "He came dressed as Carmen Miranda! Complete with headdress, with **real fruit** on top! And **then**, after the meet, he started handing out apples and bananas to everyone!" When she laughed, he shook his head. "Dead serious," he told her, and her laughter stopped, but her smile remained.

"At least he came," she offered, but he just shrugged in response, then flipped the book back open.

"What's with the fancy dress?" he asked, returning to the photos, tapping one in particular.

"Prom," she answered. "Roy Gublick took me."

"Your first boyfriend?" he asked.

"Yeah," she answered, nodding, then turned the page, happy to be leaving the one of her in the tub behind. "God, these are out of order," she muttered. "I'm two here, with my mom. She seemed to like me ok, then," she added, then sighed.

"Ok, ya'know what?" he announced, closing the album and tossing it back in the box. "Pictures are depressing, and this is supposed to be a fun 'us' time. So, let's do something fun!"

Shrugging, she asked, "Scrabble?"

"I said **fun**!" he quipped, and she laughed.

"Ok, so, what do **you** suppose we do then?" she asked, and his grin grew mischievous.

"Wanna try to sneak into the bar downstairs?" he asked, but she immediately shook her head, and his smile dropped. "How come?"

"I'm not twenty-one, for one thing," she answered. "And, I don't want to get caught," she added.

"Well, ok," he said, then asked, "How 'bout I just go and grab us something? From, like, the liquor store," he added.

"I don't do drunk well," she told him, with a slight scowl. "Last time I had too much to drink," she added, "I ended up puking all over Roy."

He laughed, and she smirked in response. "Ok, then, we won't get you drunk," he said, then grabbed her hand and pulled her off the couch, dragging her towards the door.

"You're contributing to the delinquency of a minor," she quipped, "I hope you realize."

"Yeah," he laughed, grabbing her coat and tossing it to her, then he snatched up his own and threw it on. "It's not like you're **twelve** though, right?" he asked, but she just shrugged. Laughing again, he said, "C'mon! We'll just do a few shots!"

"Of… what?" she asked warily.

His grin grew wider. "Tequila!"

**XXX**

--"Ok," Chandler instructed, tucking his leg under himself as he turned to face her, "Lick your hand, sprinkle a little salt, then, lick off the salt, down the shot, and bite the lime wedge, all as quick as you can."

Scowling, gesturing back at him, she muttered, "You first."

Smirking, he followed his own instructions, then laughed when she did. "See? Easy!"

Sighing, she muttered jokingly, "You're a bad influence on me," then followed his instructions. She gasped at the strength of it, which caused him to laugh, and her to glare back at him for it. "Don't laugh at me!" she snipped, but her slight smile told him she wasn't all that angry.

"Sorry," he apologized, then topped off his shot glass and took his turn.

As he filled her glass, she asked, "How many are you expecting me to do?"

"As many as you want," he told her, with a smirk. "Just till you feel it," he added, then gestured to the salt shaker.

Sighing, she took her turn, squinting as she bit the lime, then waved her hand and choked out, "No more. That shit burns!"

"Ah, c'mon, Mon!" he jokingly whined, "You can handle more than two!"

"You **are** trying to get me drunk!" she laughed, and then he did, too, as he topped off both their glasses.

"One more, ok?" he asked, sprinkling the salt on his own hand before handing the shaker over to her. "We'll go together," he added, and reluctantly, she nodded.

She slammed the shot glass down on the coffee table when she was done, a little harder than she had meant to, then dropped herself back against the couch cushions and sighed. "Now what?" she asked, and he smirked as he set his glass down and joined her.

"Wait for it to kick in," he laughed.

"I think it already is," she slurred slightly. "I feel all… fuzzy."

"Wow, that was fast," he muttered. "Is'not like you had ten!"

Shrugging, she asked, "What does one normally **do** while drunk?"

"Usually, depending on **how** drunk, one usually makes an ass of themselves," he answered. "But, we didn't have **that** much," he added.

"I think I need to lay down," she mumbled, struggling upright and falling sideways, her head landing in his lap.

"You only had three shots, Mon," he laughed, but she just murmured unintelligibly. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him. "On an empty stomach," he said to himself, then startled and began to shake her gently by the shoulder. "Mon? You ok? Talk to me!" When she didn't respond, he inched out from underneath her and kneeled down beside the couch. "Shit, Mon, talk to me! Say **something**!"

"Sleep," she muttered, but even that was said incompletely.

"Shit!" he cursed again, then jumped up and headed for the kitchen. "Bread, crackers, something," he muttered to himself, hunting for the items he rattled off. Finding a box of saltine crackers, he snagged them quick and ripped into them as he sprinted back towards the couch. "Mon," he said, dropping the sleeve of saltines beside him as he kneeled, "I need you to eat some crackers."

"Uhn," she grunted softly, scowling, and he sighed in response.

Trying to force her upright, he told her firmly, "You **need** to, Honey, ok? You drank on an empty stomach! That's why you feel so fucked up! Just, a few crackers, please, ok?"

She batted at him, attempting to lie back down, her scowl deepening as he fought her efforts.

"Just a few," he begged again, "And then you can sleep, ok?"

She nodded, but made no move to actually take the crackers, her hands remaining limp by her sides. Sighing, torn between mad at himself and worried about her, he snatched up a cracker, broke it in half, then put it to her mouth.

"Eat," he told her, and she opened just enough for him to slip the piece of cracker in.

The more she ate, the more aware she seemed to become. Finally, after several crackers, she was feeding herself as he handed her one after the other, her eyes then slowly opening to meet his worried ones.

"That was weird," she whispered, and he nodded in agreement.

"You drank on an empty stomach," he sighed. "It's my fault," he added, remorsefully, "And I'm sorry."

"I **told** you, you were a bad influence on me!" she laughed, but he didn't even crack a smile. "Chandler," she sighed, "I was joking."

"I **am** a bad influence on you!" he shot back, frustrated. "I pushed you to do one more! I shoulda made sure you ate first! I'm so fucking irresponsible!"

"Chandler," she sighed again, "I'm **fine**! I just got a little… zoned. What's the big deal?"

"You fucking **passed out**, Monica!" he exclaimed, "And you said you didn't want that! You said you didn't want to get drunk! I **got** you drunk!" he added, then pushed off the floor and sat on the edge of the coffee table, before dropping his face in his hands. "God, I'm such a fuck up!"

"You're being **way** too hard on yourself," she told him, scooting forward in her seat, her knees touching his catching his attention.

His hands fell into his lap, and at first, his gaze locked onto where their bodies made innocent contact, then he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. "I'm, just, sorry, is all," he said haltingly, and she nodded in response.

"I know you are," she replied, smiling back at him, "But, it's ok. No harm done, right? I'm fine now!" she added, then gestured to herself as proof. "See? Awake? Talking? Fine!"

"Why do you like me?" he asked suddenly, and she startled slight at the question. "I mean, I called you fat. I got you high and groped you. I keep hurting you and pushing you away. I dragged you out of bed in the wee hours of the morning to bail me out of jail! I just got you drunk! Why do you like me? What is there about me, **to like**?"

"Wow," she whispered, "Low self esteem much?"

Scowling back at her, he said, "I'm serious, Mon."

Shrugging, shifting her gaze to her lap, she muttered, "I don't know. There's lots of stuff I like about you. You're cute, funny, smart. You're kind, and sweet, and, you make me feel… special."

"You **are** special," he whispered, slipping his hands off his own lap and inching them onto hers, his thumbs then caressing her knees tentatively.

"Chandler, don't," she whispered, then pushed his hands off her legs. "We both know how this is going to go," she added. "We'll both want, but then you'll push me away, and feel guilty, and I'll end up feeling like shit. I can't do it again. I just can't. I meant it," she said with a sigh, "When I said, no touching. We have to try."

Nodding, he whispered back, "I'm sorry. I'll try."

"Thank you," she said, then cleared her throat nervously before adding, "We should eat something. I can make us something, or we can order something, if you'd rather." She stood to head for the kitchen, but the alcohol still in her system made her instantly dizzy. She swooned, then started to fall, but he quickly jumped up and grabbed her, then helped her gently back to sitting on the couch.

"I'll order us something," he offered, his arms still around her, his eyes locked with hers. "You're in no condition to cook," he added, and she nodded slight as she held his gaze.

Finally releasing her, he sighed as he stood, then headed for the phone on the kitchen counter. Same reasons as before, but now the tables were reversed. She was the one pushing **him** away. It hurt. Her side of the table sucked.

**X**

--"I'm tellin'ya!" Chandler laughed, as he tossed his crust in the empty pizza box on the coffee table, "Same night he met Carol! He got drunk and made out with Missy Goldberg! Don't say anything to him, though," he added. "He doesn't know I know."

"I won't," she promised, then tossed her crust in the empty box as well. "I don't think I'm drunk anymore," she mentioned, and he nodded.

"Good," he said, sighing, then dropped himself back against the cushions. "So, what do you want to do now?"

Pausing for a moment, she finally said, "I think I want to try a couple more shots. Ya'know, now that I have food in my stomach," she added.

He arched an eyebrow, and stared back at her for several long seconds, before asking, "Are you sure?"

Shrugging, she answered, "I didn't really get to feel it or anything… before. I just, fell asleep," she added, and he scoffed.

"You didn't fall asleep, Mon," he countered, his self directed irritation apparent in his tone. "You passed out."

"Ok, whatever." She waved dismissively, then announced, "I'll only do two then, ok? C'mon," she urged, "Set 'em up!"

Sighing, he scooted to the edge of the couch, shut the pizza box and pushed it aside, then brought the Tequila bottle, shot glasses, salt shaker, and bowl of lime wedges closer to them. He poured his glass to near the rim, but then filled hers to just a little above half, and when Monica realized it, she laughed.

"C'mon, Chandler! Stop being so protective! I'm fine!" she insisted, then gestured to the bottle as she added, "Match mine to yours!"

Sighing again, he topped hers off, then suggested, "We'll go at the same time, k?"

Agreeing with a nod, they both took their turns simultaneously, then Monica slammed her glass down, just short of forcefully, and ordered, "Set 'em up again!"

Somewhat reluctantly, he poured them the next shot, but only filled them both halfway.

"Chandler!" she teasingly scolded him, and he smirked in response.

"What?" he asked playfully, "Yours matches mine!"

She threw him a joking glare, then exclaimed, "Do it right!"

"There's no right or wrong way to do shots, Mon," he laughed, but then topped them off anyway, and handed hers over. "Last one! I'm cutting you off!"

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, then they both shot it back, her immediately grimacing when she did. "Done," she choked out, then handed her glass over to him and relaxed back against the cushions. "What are you doing?" she asked, when she noticed him pouring himself another.

"I'm not as big a lightweight as you," he laughed, then quickly downed his shot without the salt or lime, then moved to top himself off again.

"How many you doin?" she asked, slight concern in her tone.

Shrugging, he promised, "Last one," then shot it back, before slamming his glass down on the table. He then fell back beside her, leaving an inch of space between them as he muttered, "Numb makes shit less painful."

"No sadness," she told him, then suggested brightly, "You know what let's do! Let's go to the roof!"

Laughing, he drawled, "Why…?"

"I wanna see the stars!" she answered, pushing to leave the couch.

"We're in New York, Mon," he reminded her, groaning as he moved to join her, "You won't be able to see the stars."

"Then we'll look at all the pretty lights," she laughed, then headed for the door, calling back over her shoulder, "Comin?"

He groaned again, then laughed, before grabbing the blanket off the back of the couch and heading after her.

First spreading the blanket down on the ground, he gestured for her to sit, then joined her after she did, keeping a slight distance as they both lied back and stared skyward.

"You can see 'em a little," she told him, then shifted to snuggle up against him.

He wrapped his arm around her, pulling her to him, then sighed. She was drunk, that's the only reason she was touching him. In her state, she had forgotten her own rule. That didn't stop him from enjoying it, though, even with the slight guilt he was feeling.

"I think I'm drunk," she giggled, and he laughed as he nodded.

"You're such a lightweight," he teased, then kissed her hair before nuzzling against her.

"Yeah," she murmured, then asked of him, "Don't take advantage of me. I don't want to be drunk, when we're together for the first time."

The way she phrased it, like she had every confidence that they would at some point, be together, worried and thrilled him, all at once, and his heart raced in response.

"I would never take advantage of you, Monica," he whispered, and she nodded in agreement.

"Are **you** drunk?" she asked.

"A little," he answered.

"Are you numb?" she asked, and he realized by the question, she was more aware of what was going on than he thought.

"Yeah," he answered, then sighed heavily.

"Good," she whispered. "I don't want you to hurt."

He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, struggling against his emotions, then asked brightly, changing the subject, "So, what do you want to do tomorrow?"

"Dunno," she answered with a shrug, then asked, "What do **you** want to do?"

There were a dozen answers to that question, but he restrained himself. "Well, you said you wanted a new bed, right? Why don't we go bed shopping?"

"Beds are expensive," she returned with a scowl.

"Don't make me thump you!" he teased, and when she laughed, so did he. "I know you're not after my money, Monica, ok?" he said with a sigh. "I'm offering. Stop arguing with me, every time I do."

"K," she agreed easily, then asked, "Is there a price limit?"

Shaking his head, he quipped, "Go nuts."

"Cool. Ya'know," she added playfully, "I'm gonna need new sheets, to go with my new bed."

"Oh, absolutely," he agreed with a smirk. "Followed by lunch?" he asked.

"Sounds like a fun day," she sighed, then snuggled in deeper.

"Yeah," he whispered, "It does."

They fell silent, and when her breathing changed, he knew she was dozing off.

"You getting sleepy, Honey?" he asked, and she nodded, just barely. "K," he said, then shifted to sit, "Let's go back inside then."

He helped her off the ground, then snatched up the blanket and shook it out before following her into the stairwell.

"You want me to sleep on the couch?" he asked carefully, but she shook her head.

"You can sleep in the other room," she answered, and he sighed as he nodded.

Settling into bed, the one thing that quickly dawned on him, was it smelled like Monica. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, his mind bringing up images of her, lying next to him, how she sounded on the phone, when she was moaning and breathing his name, and his body stirred. God, he was weak. Sighing, he unbuttoned and unzipped his pants, pushed them down just enough, and wrapped his hand around himself. With Monica on his mind, it took very little time to get to the brink.

"Chandler?"

Her voice scared him. Startling, he then turned away from her, dropping his hand and closing his eyes as he whispered, to himself, "Fuck."

For several long moments, all she did was stare at him, at his back, but finally, eventually, she asked in a soft, timid tone, "Were you…?"

"Fuck," he whispered again, then nodded slight.

"I'll leave you alone," she said, then turned to leave.

"Don't. Please," he called out to her, and she turned back around.

She walked slowly into the room, rounded the bed, then sat down beside him, watching him carefully. He remained still for a long few seconds, his eyes still closed tightly, but then, finally, he opened them and glanced up at her. Holding her gaze only briefly, he squeezed them shut again and rolled onto his back, then sighed shakily as he resumed what he had been doing. The blankets he was under prevented her from actually seeing, but she knew all the same. The movement beneath them left little to the imagination.

She wanted to touch him, but she knew if she did, he would stop, so she placed her hands in her lap and watched silently.

Finally gathering enough courage, she whispered, "Let me hear you, Chandler. Let me hear how good it feels."

"Oh, God," he groaned, then moaned loudly as he tensed and shuddered, his movements slowing to a stop seconds later.

He couldn't look at her. Shame and guilt raged, stopping him from performing the simple action of opening his eyes, and he sighed heavily as he whispered, "I'm sorry."

"I'm not," she whispered back, then asked of him, "You want to come to my room?"

He swallowed hard, then nodded. "I should clean up first," he whispered.

"I'll be waiting for you," she said softly, then pushed off the bed and left the room.

In the bathroom, Chandler reasoned with his conscience. He promised Ross he wouldn't have sex with her. He never promised not to masturbate in front of her. Or watch her. He took in a shaky breath at the thought of it. He was looking for loopholes, and he knew he was, but the knowledge didn't change his mind. He wanted this. This, and so much more, although more wasn't possible. It was just too complicated, and potentially hurtful, and probably friendship ending. That was a risk he just wasn't willing to take. But, just watching her. Watching, with no touching. That didn't break the rules. As hard as it was bound to be, to walk away from it, and go back to being just friends, he wanted it. How much willpower should a man be expected to have?

He entered her room slowly, giving the partially open door a soft knock before pushing inside. His heart lurched and raced when he saw her, on the bed, under the covers, watching him as he stepped further in.

"I've been waiting for you," she whispered, then patted the mattress beside her.

Hesitantly, he climbed onto the bed, settling in at the far edge as he told her with a wavering voice, "I can't touch you, Honey."

"I know," she said, just as softly, but far steadier. "I didn't ask you to," she added, then her hands slipped under the covers, and her eyes drifted shut.

He could see the movements beneath the blankets, but he mostly focused on her face, her expressions, and the way her lips parted as she began to breathe unevenly. He fisted his hands, pushing them deep into the mattress as he watched her, to stop himself from helping her.

"Let me hear you," he whispered, and he moaned with her when she vocalized her enjoyment of what she was doing. "Imagine it's **my** hand, **my** fingers," he told her, and she moaned again as she nodded.

"I am," she whispered, and within seconds, she arched her back and whimpered his name.

When she relaxed back against the bed, he knew she was done, and he took in a shaky breath to settle his own arousal as he stared over at her, waiting for her eyes to open and meet his.

"Don't feel guilty," she asked of him, her eyes still closed, and she heard him sigh in response.

"I'm trying not to," he said, then shifted from his side to his back. "How drunk are you?" he asked, and she sighed as she opened her eyes and turned to face him.

"Not very," she answered, then told him, "Don't think like that."

He shook his head, then whispered, "I just needed to be sure."

"What were you thinking about, right before I walked in?" she asked cautiously, and he turned his head only, finally meeting her gaze.

"You," he admitted. "The smell of you was all around me."

Nodding slight, she asked him, "Will you hold me tonight? Just hold me?"

He held her in his stare as he nodded and scooted closer, then slipped under the blankets and gathered her into his arms. "Tomorrow-"

"I know," she interrupted him, already knowing what he was going to say. "Tomorrow, we walk the line, and forget this ever happened."

"We can remember," he whispered. "I know **I** won't be able to forget it, but, we **do** have to walk the line," he added, and she nodded.

"I will," she promised him. "I'll be good," she added.

Laughing, he said, "Me too," then added in a whisper, as he pulled her tighter against him, "Sweet dreams, Mon."

"Sweet dreams, Chandler."

So much more than friends. So much less than where they wanted to be. His heart ached as he held her, pretending to be asleep, but in actuality, deep in thought. Walking the line would be near impossible, after what they had just shared. There was no point in denying it. But the line could be a tightrope, one hundred yards off the ground, without the benefit of a safety net beneath it, and he still wouldn't take back one second of what had just happened.

How much suffering should someone have to endure, all in the name of friendship?

**XXX**

--The mattress store was empty, save the bored looking salesman off in the corner. He barely even glanced up from his magazine, when the bell on the door sounded as they walked through, but Chandler offered him a polite smile anyway.

"Ah," Chandler quipped quietly to Monica, "A man who loves his work."

"Ssshhh," she hissed, suppressing a laugh, "Don't piss him off! He won't wait on us!"

"Oh, he'll wait on us," he returned confidently. "They work off commissions! Hey! Cool!" he announced suddenly, then started to walk away from her. "Waterbed!" Leaping onto it, he did a bellyflop, setting the thing in violent motion, and he laughed as he flipped over and called to her, "You should get **this** one!"

Strolling over casually, rolling her eyes playfully, she muttered sarcastically, "So I'll have to get up a dozen times in the night to pee? No, thank you. Besides," she added, "What if it sprung a leak? Can you imagine the mess?"

"You break it, you buy it," the salesman warned Chandler, his tone far from enthused.

"Sorry," Chandler apologized, then muttered under his breath as he climbed off the still moving bed, "Jerk off."

"Now **this** is more like it!" Monica exclaimed, crawling into a bed nearby, hunkering down to test it. "Come check **this** one out, Chandler!"

Smirking, he stepped over and jumped on and past her, lying next to her as he settled in. "Oh, yeah," he murmured appreciatively, "This has 'sleep like a baby' written **all** over it!"

She laughed, then reached over to the side of the bed to look at the price tag. "Holy shit!" she gasped. "What, is it lined with **gold**?"

Chandler shifted onto his side and peered over her to take a look, then dropped back onto the bed. "I swear to God I'm gonna thump you!" he quipped, then sighed and told her, "You need to stop worrying about that shit."

"Poor people worry about price, Chandler," she countered, but he scoffed in reply.

"Well, don't get too used to it, then, cause when you're a famous chef, the price of a bed won't mean beans!"

"Yeah, well, until then, I worry," she muttered, then sat up, preparing to leave the bed. He quickly moved to stop her.

"Mon," he said with a sigh, "I **want** to do this for you. Let me?" he asked of her, but she just sighed in return and rolled her eyes. "Be honest," he whispered, "Is this the bed you want?"

She groaned, then nodded, and he laughed before rolling off the bed to stand.

"Sir?" he called to the salesman, "We'll take this one."

The man sighed, dropped his magazine on a nearby counter, then dragged himself off the stool he had been sitting on and approached in slow motion. "And, how will you be **paying** for it?" he asked. The implication in his tone was easily caught. The man thought they were poor college kids who couldn't afford to pay attention.

Chandler decided to play with him. "Hmmm, I don't know. Honey?" he asked Monica, "Should I use the gold card, the platinum card, or just go with cash?"

Catching on, Monica replied, "Hmmm, Sweetie, I'm not sure. You choose."

"Gold card it is!" Chandler announced, then reached for his wallet and whipped the card out with flair. "And, we'll need it delivered by tomorrow," he added, then hid a smirk as the man just stared back at him in total bewilderment.

--Monica folded her receipt neatly and tucked it into her purse as they left the store, asking with a laugh as soon as they were outside, "Did you see the look on his face, when you handed over that credit card? I swear, I thought he was about to wet himself!"

"Yeah," he laughed in return, "That was pretty cool."

"Do you get that a lot?" she asked, only slightly more serious. "People assuming, cause you're young, that you must be poor, I mean?"

Shrugging, he answered, "Sometimes."

"Does it bother you?" she asked, and he shrugged again.

"Nah. Not really," he answered. "I usually just mess with them," he added with a laugh, then asked, "So, where to now?"

"The linens store!" she answered excitedly. "I want to get new sheets for my awesome new bed!"

"Right," he drawled, smirking. "You're easy to shop with," he told her, then added jokingly, "And they say girls take forever, picking shit out!"

"Yeah, well," she quipped, "You've never gone **clothes** shopping with me!"

Wincing dramatically, he announced, "Think I'll be conveniently sick, the day you ask me to!"

She laughed, smacked him playfully, then asked, "What's the spending limit on the sheets?"

"Go nuts," he answered, then quickly added, "Do **not** make me have to thump you!"

"Fine," she scoffed, hiding a smile as she insisted, "Then, nowhere expensive for lunch!"

"Deal!" he laughed, then instinctively reached for her hand. When she tensed, his smile dropped. Still holding it, he asked, "Is something wrong?" If she wanted to stick to the no touching rule, she would have to say so. After what they had shared the night before, he wasn't going to make it easy for her to withdraw from him.

"No," she eventually whispered, then tightened her grip, which brought the smile back to his face.

"Good! Ok, so, burgers and fries for lunch?" he asked casually. "I know a place, just a few blocks up," he added.

"Sure," she answered distractedly, in a tone that Chandler easily recognized as confusion.

He couldn't blame her, really. Things were far from clear. Far from simple.

Change the subject. Keep the mood light. "So, anything else you need from the sheets store, while we're there?" he asked. "Towels? A new pillow? Some kind of, fuzzy bathmat thing?"

"Stop spoiling me!" she laughed. "Besides," she added teasingly, "I plan to bankrupt you with the sheets!"

Laughing too, he asked, "God, hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of sheets? How many sets do you **need**?"

She startled, then stopped dead in her tracks. "Hundreds of thousands of dollars?" she asked, and his smile faded slightly as he sighed and nodded. "Oh my God! You have **that** much in your trust fund?!"

"At least," he said with a shrug, then encouraged her to start walking again by tugging at her hand. "Don't freak, Honey, please," he asked of her. "It's no biggie."

Honey. He kept calling her that. Her smile grew unknowingly.

Glancing over, he saw her expression. She looked… happy. "You ok?" he asked with a well-hidden smirk, and she nodded in answer.

"Just thinking about **all** the stuff I'm gonna buy!" she added. "You know, since you offered and all."

"Oh, God," he groaned playfully, "We're gonna be in the bathroom store for **days**, aren't we?"

"Not if you help!" she laughed, then, seeing the store ahead, picked up pace. "Besides," she added, "I'm hungry!"

**X**

--"I really didn't mean to spend **that** much," she told him remorsefully, just after putting their order in with the waitress, but he just laughed in response.

"I told you, Mon, it's fine!" he assured her, then added, "If it **wasn't**, I woulda told you to put stuff back!"

"I **offered** to put stuff back!" she reminded him, and he laughed again.

"I think it's time to thump you," he quipped, then reached across the table and took her hands in his. "Honey, please, stop, ok?" he asked of her, with a gentle smile. "I **wanted** to do it."

Nodding, she whispered, "Ok. I'll stop. If you do something for me," she added, and he laughed.

"Buying out _Linens and Shit_ wasn't enough?" he quipped, but her serious expression remained. "Sorry," he apologized, then asked, "What? What do you need me to do for you?"

Sighing, she answered hesitantly, "I want to talk about last night."

He dropped his chin to his chest and his eyes to the table, then sighed before lifting both, and reinitiating eye contact. "We will, but, not right now, ok? I want today to be a fun day!" he added. "I just, want a break, from the gutwrenching angst of the situation. We will, I promise," he repeated, "But, not right now."

"Ok," she agreed, but he could tell she was frustrated.

Change the subject. "So," he asked brightly, "Any other stores I can buy out for you, while we're on a spree?"

Smirking, she rolled her eyes, then informed him, "You've done enough, Chandler! I can **never** begin to repay you, for all of this!"

"I'm not expecting you to," he told her, firmly, but with a smile. "These are **gifts**!"

"You're too good to me," she whispered, and he immediately shook his head.

"You deserve it," he insisted.

She did deserve it, in his way of thinking. After everything he had put her through, she deserved that and more.

**XXX**

--She unlocked the door and pushed her way inside, her arms loaded down with bags from shopping. He dropped the bags he was carrying just inside, out of the path, but remained in the doorway.

"You're not coming in?" she asked, confused, her scowl deepening when he shook his head. "How come?"

"I have something I need to finish, for tomorrow," he answered as she approached.

"School assignment?" she asked, but he just shrugged.

"I had a good time today," he told her, changing the subject, and a slight smile inched onto her face.

"I did, too," she admitted, stepping up to just in front of him. "Thank you," she whispered, "For all the stuff. And, for, just… today," she added, and he smiled and nodded in reply.

"I had a good time last night, too," he said, but when her expression turned serious, he shook his head. "Don't," he asked of her. "Don't worry about that now, ok? We'll discuss it later," he added, and her scowl returned.

"When?" she asked, her breath hitching when he stepped closer.

"Soon," he whispered, then raked his hand into her hair and leaned in, brushing a path with his lips across her cheek and up to her ear. "Soon," he repeated, then kissed her cheek and pulled back. "I'll call you tomorrow, after classes, ok?"

Stunned, she nodded weakly, and he smiled reassuringly back at her before turning and leaving.

She stood cemented in place for several long seconds, before moving to close the door. Something was different. He wasn't exactly acting different, but, something had definitely changed. Something in his demeanor, maybe. She didn't dare hope. There was pain in hope. There was pain anyway.

She decided to hope.

**To be continued**

Author's note:

And there was chapter nine! Did you catch some of the subtle points I threw in? I hope so. It needed to be subtle… wasn't about to thump you over the head with it (LOL).

Chapter ten is half done. It's been harder to write, than I thought it was going to be. Still, shouldn't take too long to get it done. At least, that's the hope.

Still need to know if y'all want to see an epilogue. Let me know, k?

You know what makes it hard to concentrate? When the kids keep playing Rock Band! All creativity just, stops dead, and I end up either singing along, or playing **with**! Or **both**! Oh well, they have to go to bed at **some** point! I swear, I get most of my writing done, between 11 P.M. and 3 A.M.!

Did anyone get the alert (who's on alert) for chapter 8? I have myself on alert (so I'll know that everything posted correctly), and I didn't get the alert. Or any of the alerts, when people left reviews. Site is glitching, maybe? Maybe that's why I only got 6 reviews? Or is the story starting to suck?

Hope it's the glitching thing.

Ok, so, reviews are a necessary part of the process, folks! Join the process, won't you?

MTLBYAKY


	10. Chapter 10

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana~

**Chapter Ten**

**XXX**

--Chandler was terrified. He gathered his papers off his desk, pushed off his swivel chair, then took in a shaky breath as he headed for the door. He could still back out, but he knew, that was the fear talking. He had to tell her. He was aching to tell her.

Was it really wise, to start something he wasn't even sure if he could finish? Would she take the bait and make it easy on him?

Nothing about this was easy.

He fished the quarter out of his pocket, cradled the receiver on his shoulder against his ear, then pushed the coin into the payphone and, with trembling hands, punched in the number.

He could still back out. Shut up, brain.

"Hello?"

His heart raced at the sound of her voice. "Hey, Mon, it's me."

"Oh, hey! I just tried calling you, like, ten minutes ago, but no one answered the stupid payphone!"

Laughing, he said, "Yeah, sorry about that. I'm gonna get that pager, by the end of the week," he promised, then asked, "Why did you call?"

"Oh, I just wanted to tell you… the bed arrived! I put the cream colored sheets, with the little pink flowers on it! And the matching comforter! It's **so** pretty!"

He wanted to be excited, but his brain just couldn't wrap around sheets or beds. It was too preoccupied. "Cool," he replied supportively, then immediately asked, "Could I maybe get your opinion on something?" His voice sounded far from normal, but she didn't seem to pick up on that.

"Sure! What's up?"

Breathing turned difficult, and he dry-swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat as he answered, "I just finished writing… something, and, I was hoping to maybe read it to you. So you can tell me what you think?" She hesitated before responding. She could tell something was off, he just knew it.

"Sure."

"Um, thanks." God, he sounded like a scared little boy. "Ok, so, um, this is a phone conversation, that's being had." He cleared his throat nervously, then began to read from his story. "If I had you in my arms, I would stare deep into your eyes, and touch your trembling body. My fingertips would graze your skin sensually, creating shivers in the heat of it. My lips would kiss **every** inch of you, leaving no soft curve unattended to, until yours were firmly beneath them, swelling and aching, and begging for more. Our tongues would dance to the rhythm of me moving inside you, bringing us to the brink of ecstasy, our moans of pleasure creating a gentle music we cherish. And then our hearts would sing, crying out in perfect harmony as our souls blend into one and complete us. Then I would hold you in my arms again, and pull you, quivering, up against me. I would whisper 'I love you', and tell you for how long I have **always** wanted to be with you."

Chandler cleared his throat again, indicating that he was done reading, then muttered, "There's more after that, but, that's the part I wanted your opinion on." Silence. "Mon? You still there?"

"I'm here."

He couldn't sense the tone, and his anxieties started to rise. "If it sucks, you can say so."

"Are you kidding? I need a cold shower now! Shit, Chandler, that was **amazing**!"

Her praise brought a slight smile to his face, despite his tenseness. "Yeah? Really?"

"Really. Only, it might be a bit… **much**. You know, I mean, for a writing assignment."

Adrenalin shot through him. "This isn't for class," he admitted, closing his eyes tightly as he forced himself to breathe evenly.

"It's not?"

"No," he whispered.

"Then, what's it for?"

She was piecing it together. "I just, felt like writing it," he answered vaguely.

"Started writing the great American novel already, huh?"

She laughed, but he could tell it was forced. "Not exactly," he answered.

"Is there… a reason… for writing it?"

Oh, God. Just ask. "Kinda."

"Can I read it?"

Finally. "I can be there in twenty minutes," he answered, then, without even saying goodbye, he hung up the phone. "Shit!" he cursed, then snatched the phone back up. "Goodb--" Dial tone. "Shit!" he cursed again, then slammed it back down and darted for the stairs.

**XXX**

--The door almost immediately swung open after he knocked, like she had been hovering nearby, waiting. Their eyes locked, and slowly, Chandler extended his hand, and the papers in it towards her.

The expression he wore made it obvious. Something was definitely different.

She gave a slight nod as she took the pages from him, then led the way to the couch, Chandler close behind her, and as she took a seat, he stepped over to ease himself down onto the coffee table in front of her. His gaze stayed on her the entire time, watching for any and all signs of understanding, but she gave away very little in her reactions to what she was reading. He knew she was finally done, when she moved the last page of the story to the back of the stack.

Sighing, she stared down on the first page blankly for several seconds, before whispering, "There's no mistaking, who this story is about."

"I know," he replied, then took in a shaky breath and waited for her to continue.

"You **wanted** me to see this." It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway.

"Yes," he whispered. "I wrote it… **for** you," he added, and she finally lifted her head to meet his eyes.

He could see the tears, but he had almost no time to even give it thought. Everything happened too quickly after that. She set the story beside her on the couch, then abruptly left her seat and climbed into his lap, her lips pressing against his softly, but desperately. His hands flew to her waist, fingertips digging in as he pulled her towards him, more onto his lap, more against him. The kiss became frenzied, like at any moment, the world would come to an end, and they would forever be apart.

It was Chandler who eventually slowed the pace. Raking his hand into her hair, he broke his lips' contact with hers repeatedly, each time as he would return them, easing the kiss from frantic to gentle.

"Monica…"

When he whispered her name, fear shot through her. He was going to reject her again. She wouldn't live through another rejection. She knew she wouldn't.

A pained sigh escaped her before she whimpered breathlessly, against his lips, "I'm in love with you, Chandler."

"Oh, God," he breathed, then touched his forehead to hers and squeezed his eyes shut tight. For a moment, she thought he was mad at her for saying it, but then he said the words she had most wanted to hear, and changed everything between them. "I'm in love with you, too. God. Shit. What are we supposed to do now?"

"Talk to him," she told him, then asked again, pleadingly, "Chandler, talk to him. Please. We have to try. I don't want to be without you anymore."

Nodding in agreement, he asked, "What if he says no?"

"Then, we'll go to our graves, wondering what could have been, I guess," she answered, her tone the absolute depiction of tortured.

The thought of it, and the sound of her voice, made him ache down to his very soul. "What if he- What if he, says yes?" he asked hesitantly.

"Either way," she whispered, "Come back and tell me."

Surprised, he shifted away and stared back at her with a growing scowl of confusion. "Now? You want me to go now?"

"I can't wait another second, not knowing. Please," she begged him, and he sighed as he nodded.

"I'll go now," he told her, "But, be prepared for either answer, Monica. If it's 'no', that's it. No more toying with the line. It'll just drive us mad."

She agreed with a single, slow nod, then asked, "And if he says yes?"

Taking her by the waist, he helped her off his lap, back over to her seat on the couch, then plucked the story he had written from the spot beside her, brought the last page to the front, and held it up, pointing to the section he had read to her over the phone. "That," he answered simply, then handed the papers to her, leaned in to kiss her lips softly, before standing and heading for the door.

"Good luck," she called out, and he spun around again to face her, right before reaching for the knob.

"Whatever the answer," he told her, "Just know, I will always love you."

Her voice gone, her breathing strained, she offered a slight nod, then watched him leave as the tears dropped to her cheeks. Briefly, she considered running after him, going with him, but she knew it wouldn't do any good. Ross would've felt ganged up on, and then his answer would've been 'no' for sure. It was best to let Chandler deal with him, one on one. Alone.

What if the answer **was** 'no'? What if Chandler could never be hers? She couldn't fathom it. Not with knowing he was in love with her, too. The tears came faster, and she stepped towards the kitchen, to engage in the only ritual that would offer her the slightest bit of distraction from the torturous wait. Thankfully, Nana left her supplies.

**XXX**

--"Be there. Be there. Be there," Chandler chanted silently to himself as he approached his dorm room door. He just wanted to get it over with. He needed to know, if he was going to have his shot at happiness, or be forced to spend the rest of his life in wretched misery.

Taking in a deep cleansing breath first, he grabbed the knob, turned, and pushed his way inside.

"Hey, Man, check it out! Look what I got for Carol!"

At least he was in a good mood, but Chandler just knew, he wasn't going to be able to engage in small talk. Convincingly, anyway.

"Cool," Chandler returned politely as he gave the object his attention. "What is it? Glass duck?"

"Crystal duck, actually," Ross corrected, then added, "And **very** expensive! But, she's worth it."

"Cool," Chandler repeated, then took in a breath and held it as he announced, before Ross could ramble on, "I sorta need to talk to you, Dude."

Ross' smile dropped when he saw the intense expression on his face. "Sounds serious."

"It kinda is," Chandler confirmed, then struggled with where to begin as he only stared back at him. When Ross' scowl grew, he blurted out the first starting sentence that came to mind. "I want to date Monica."

His scowl turned to shock. "Whoa! What?"

"I know I said that we were just friends," Chandler hurried to explain, "But, it's just not enough anymore. I want more. We **both** want more. I haven't done anything with her, Man," he lied. Ross didn't need to know **everything**. "I promised you I wouldn't, and we haven't," he continued, "But, we **have** discussed things. A bunch of times. We want to be in a relationship with each other, but, if you're not ok with that, then, we won't be. We'll be miserable, but, we both agreed, that if you're not cool with it, then, we'll just remain friends."

"Guilt. Nice," Ross muttered as he turned away.

"I'm not trying to guilt you, Man," Chandler stated quickly, regaining his attention. "I'm just being honest. I'm miserable, Ross, and I **have** been for a while now. And she is, too. I'm in love with her, Man," he admitted, "And she's in love with me, too, but, if it's just too weird for you, then, it all stops now. All the discussions, and the wondering… stops. Dead. The end. I won't go back on my promise to you, and I would **never** do anything to risk ruining our friendship."

Ross' expression was impossible to read, but, at least he didn't appear to be angry.

"You're in love with her?" Ross asked, his shock returning.

"Yeah," Chandler answered with a sigh. "Completely. Head over heels, want to rip my own fucking heart out in love."

"And, you would, just, walk away from that, if I asked you to?" Ross asked haltingly, like he was amazed.

Nodding, Chandler answered absolutely, "Yes."

Eyes narrowing in confusion, Ross asked, "Why?"

"Cause, Dude," Chandler answered, "You're like my brother! Which kinda makes Monica like a sister," he added anxiously, "Which just makes me loving her seem a little weird-- Wait," he interrupted himself. "Is **that** why you don't want us to be together? Does it seem like, well, incest, to you?"

Shrugging, sighing, Ross answered, "Not exactly."

"Ok," Chandler asked hesitantly, "So, then, **what**, exactly?"

"Dude, you're like a brother to me, too," Ross answered, "And I love'ya, but, Chandler… you're a pothead."

"That's why you don't want us together?" Chandler asked, surprised. "Cause I smoke weed?"

"Being friends is one thing, Chandler," Ross sighed, "And you're a great guy, even **on** the weed. It's fine to be friends, cause no one has the chance of getting hurt, but, when you're in a relationship, the other person stands to get hurt. I don't want Monica getting hurt," he added, "If eventually, the weed becomes a problem. I love you, Man, but, I don't want my sister dating a pothead."

Nodding in understanding, Chandler told him, "Well, if that's the problem, then we have no problem. I gave it up."

Startling, Ross asked, "What? Are you serious?"

"Yes," Chandler answered calmly. Firmly. "She had similar concerns, and I just, love her too much, to do that to her. To put her through the worry. So, I gave it up."

"Just like that?" Ross asked skeptically.

"Just like that," Chandler repeated in answer.

"You gave it up for her, so that you **can** be in a relationship with her?" Ross asked cautiously, to which Chandler shook his head.

"No," he answered. "I gave it up, **period**. Because I wanted to. For myself, **and** for her. Relationship or not."

"So, if I looked in your desk drawer right now," Ross semi-challenged, "I would find no weed? No pipe?"

"The pipe's still in there," Chandler answered with a sigh, "But, yeah, no weed."

"Why did you keep the pipe then?" Ross asked, with a somewhat disbelieving tone, and Chandler sighed again, in response.

Moving to his desk drawer, Chandler grabbed the pipe from it, then chucked it hard into the empty wastebasket, shattering it when it hit the metallic bottom. "I just didn't throw it out yet, is all," he answered, then added in all seriousness, "I keep my promises, Ross. I think I've proven that to be true. I promised Monica, and now I'm promising you. I'm done blazing. I'm done. You want me to prove it? It takes about thirty to be out of your system. In thirty days, we'll go down, and I'll submit to a drug test. I'll submit to one every week, if that's what you want. If that's what it takes, for you to believe me. But, weed or not, Dude, I would **never** hurt Monica. Never."

"I never thought you would," Ross assured him, then added, almost under his breath, "Intentionally. I was just worried, that, if certain situations came up, because of your pot use, that **that** might cause her to get hurt."

"I would **never** have allowed that to happen, Ross," Chandler stated firmly.

"So, essentially," Ross sighed, "What you're looking for here, is my blessing."

"Yeah," Chandler answered. This was the defining moment, and he knew it. "Without it, nothing happens. If you say no, Monica and I will remain friends, and friends only."

"And be miserable," Ross added, and Chandler nodded.

"Yeah."

"Does she know you're here right now, talking to me about this?" Ross asked.

"Yes," Chandler answered. He had never been so tense in all his life. "She's waiting for me," he added.

It seemed to take forever, for Ross to finally respond. "Go to her. With my blessing."

From stressed and tortured to deliriously and optimistically happy in six words. "Dude. Are you serious?"

"Yes," Ross said with a definitive nod, "I'm serious. It's a little weird," he added, "The idea of you and my sister, but, the biggest problem I had, is no longer a problem. And I don't want to be the reason why my sister is miserable. Or why **you're** miserable."

"Dude," Chandler announced, pulling him into a guy-friendly half-hug, "You have no idea, how happy you just made me!"

"Yeah, well," Ross laughed, "Call it an early birthday present, then."

Laughing as well, Chandler shot back, "You got it, Man!" then pushed away and sprinted towards the door.

"Oh, and Chandler?" Ross called to him, "One more thing."

Chandler spun around, asking, "What's that, Man?"

His expression turned serious once again. "If you ever cause my sister pain. If you ever cause her any unhappiness, of any kind, I will hunt you down, and kick your ass."

"If I **do**," Chandler replied, hiding a smirk, "You'll have to get in line behind **me**. Ever see someone, trying to kick their own ass?" he quipped. "Quite the riot."

Ross smirked, then rolled his eyes, looking surprisingly like Monica when he did. "Tell her I love her," he asked of him, "And that I'll see her tomorrow. We're meeting up for lunch."

**XXX**

--Chandler's smile grew as he approached her door. His heart was racing, but in a good way, the adrenalin rush a pleasant one, knowing she would be in his arms within minutes. Knowing that, finally, his touch wouldn't cause her pain. His plans for the rest of the day and night, involved little else beyond holding her and loving her, and being with her in every way that he could be.

Not even bothering to knock, he turned the knob and stepped inside, but almost instantly, stopped dead in his tracks.

"Whoa! Did a pine forest and a lemon grove go to blows in here?" he quipped, and she spun around and away from the sink at the sound of his voice.

"I clean when I'm nervous," she announced anxiously, then asked of him, almost desperately, "Just, tell me, please."

The smile on his face should've told her the answer, but she was so nervous, she couldn't see it for what it was. She didn't dare assume. She needed to hear it.

Nodding, smiling gently, he whispered, "He gave us his blessing."

Her worried expression changed to shock in the flash of a second. She almost didn't believe it. She had refused to allow her heart to hope. There was always pain in hope. There was pain, anyway. Only now, with her brother's blessing, it seemed the pain would finally be over. She wasn't quite sure how to feel about that. Joy? Sure. Shock? Definitely. It was that emotion, that caused her to gasp the only words that came to her mind, in that moment. "Oh my God. Are you serious?"

"Totally serious," he answered, as he slowly began to approach her. "Turns out," he added, "The weed was his biggest issue. He just didn't want to see you get hurt by it, directly or indirectly."

"He's too overprotective," she muttered, her heart picking up pace as he neared. Why was she so nervous all of the sudden?

"He loves you," he said in Ross' defense. "He told me to tell you that," he added, "And that he'll see you tomorrow."

Nodding, she whispered, almost shakily, "We're meeting up for lunch."

Sensing her nervousness, he slowed his purposeful steps towards her. "I know," he whispered back, "He told me."

"Ok." Her reply was almost a barely audible whimper. He knew she was anxious. He had to know.

"So," he said with a soft, reassuring tone, "I guess there's only one question left to ask." He knew.

She nodded, like she was in agreement, but then shook her head and asked, "And, what's that?"

Her timidity was more than just a little surprising. He had half expected her to attack him, the minute he had walked through the door. It was a glimpse back at the Monica he had first been intimate with, the day Ross caught them. Hiding an amused smirk, he whispered, as he placed his hands gently on her hips, "Tender? Or gotta-have-you-now?"

"That's two questions, technically," she countered, a slight smile appearing when he laughed softly.

"Sue me," he teased, then pulled her closer to him, cautiously, their bodies finally in contact.

"Think I'll wait till you're a famous author," she choked out, jokingly. "I'll get more money in the settlement."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed sarcastically, his smirk finally appearing, then asked, "You gonna answer it?"

"Tender," she whispered. "We'll get to the gotta-have-you-now thing later," she added.

Nodding in agreement, he leaned in, then pressed his lips to hers, delicately, a slow, gentle kiss following.

It was really, actually happening. There was nothing stopping them. No guilt, or rules, or lines to walk. The thought of it startled her. Before, she was so focused on making it happen, she didn't think ahead to what would happen, when it finally **did**. Now that it was, she didn't know how to act. How to be. Stuck between dizzy in love, and scared of the next step. Wanting desperately to take it, but almost frightened of the unknown.

He could feel her shaking. Breaking the kiss, pulling her into his arms, he whispered, "God, you're trembling. Are you really that nervous?"

"I just can't believe this is finally going to happen," she answered. "And, yes," she admitted, "I am."

"You don't need to be," he told her soothingly. "I'm gonna take good care of you."

"I know," she whispered, then, attempting humor, quipped, "I think the weed made me less nervous."

Laughing, he shot back, "If **I** can't smoke it, **you** can't!"

"I'm not asking to smoke it," she returned sarcastically, with a roll of her eyes, "I'm just saying."

"I know," he whispered, then suggested, hoping to ease her tension, "Maybe we should just, do what's familiar, and work ourselves up to it."

"You wanna go to the coffeehouse and make fun of Gunther?" she joked uneasily, and he laughed, but stroked her hair comfortingly, to let her know he was aware of her anxieties.

"No," he drawled, then added as he nuzzled against her, "I was thinking more along the lines of, crawling into bed, and, just, holding each other for a while."

Smiling appreciatively, she whispered in reply, "Holding is good."

Feeling her relax slightly, he murmured, "Holding is **very** good," then moved back and slid the hand that was gripping her waist down, to entwine his fingers with hers, smiling reassuringly as he led her to her room. Gesturing for her to climb in first, he followed seconds later, then immediately gathered her into his arms and pulled her tightly to him. She was still shaking. "God, Monica, it's like you're your own private earthquake!" he announced, concerned, then asked of her, "Please, Honey, just, take a few deep breaths or something."

"Don't take this to mean, that I don't want to do this," she told him, "Cause, believe me, I do!" she insisted. "I'm just… nervous," she added.

Sighing, he asked, "Why are you so nervous? Is it because it's your first time?"

"That's part of it, I'm sure," she admitted, embarrassed, "But, mostly, it's because it's… well, **you**."

"Oh, no pressure there!" he laughed, and then she did, too.

"I don't mean it in a bad way," she assured him. "It's, just, I've wanted you for so long, and now that I'm allowed to have you, it seems… surreal. Like it's somehow a dream," she added, and then shrugged, frustrated that she couldn't find the right words to explain herself.

"Are you this scared in your dreams?" he asked, smirking when she shook her head.

"No, I'm usually the aggressor," she replied, then sighed as she added, "Kinda like I've always been. Up till **now**."

"Maybe, it's cause, you now know you have me, so you know you don't have to be aggressive," he offered, showing his understanding, then added in a whisper, "You don't have to be. I'll lead."

Shifting onto his side, most of his upper body weight distributed onto his elbow, and the arm that was still tucked under her, he almost hovered over her, smiling comfortingly as he stared down on her. Slowly, gently, he placed his hand on her stomach, his smile growing wider as she, at first, flinched at the contact, then relaxed and eased into the feel of his touch. "Yay or nay on the wandering fingers?"

Remembering the first time he'd asked her that, knowing that was why he was asking, she laughed, then played along. "Over clothes?"

"Your call," he answered, creating a drumming pattern with his fingers against her that caused her to laugh again.

"Yay," she answered simply, then almost held her breath to see what his next course of action would be.

"Do you want me to touch you, Monica," he asked huskily, "And make your body come to life, in ways you can't even describe?"

With the question, came the realization of what he was doing. He was bringing up moments, from all their most intimate but disrupted near-misses, to create familiarity. Nodding, she whispered, "I want your hands on me **so** bad. I want to put my hands on **you**."

She'd caught on. Smiling briefly, he then told her, seductively, "I'm going to cherish every inch of you. Every soft curve. I'm going to do everything to you and for you that you deserve, until you're moaning in pleasure, and sighing my name."

"God, Chandler…" It came out as a half-moan, half-whimper, her eyes drifting shut as she said it, and Chandler smirked knowingly. He had successfully helped her past her fears, using only his words. He was barely even touching her. Yet.

Leaning in, he brushed his lips against hers, forewarning her of what was to come, then kissed her fully, softly, as he slowly inched his hand up her body. He cupped her breast, caressing it, the kiss intensifying as he played with the taut skin through her shirt and bra with his palm.

When she arched into his touch, he whispered, "You like that," and she smiled slight as she nodded. "I want to see **all** of you," he asked of her, his voice low and gentle. "I want to see every inch of beautiful, pale skin," he added, his lips hovering over hers. "Every sexy freckle."

Nodding in permission, she moved to sit up, and he shifted with her, helping her when she reached for the buttons on her blouse. She locked eyes with him, leaving him to work each button alone, then shrugged out of it when his hands moved to push it off her shoulders. He watched without assisting, as she unclasped and removed her bra, but hid the fact that he was by keeping his eyes steady on hers.

"Lie back down," he instructed, reclining with her, his arm tucked under her as she relaxed herself against the mattress. "Close your eyes," he added, and when she did, he finally allowed his gaze to drift lower. "You are the most beautiful woman in the whole world," he whispered, then cupped one breast as his lips descended on the other.

His fingers and tongue fondled her, adored her, causing her body to tremble with need, and her breathing to turn heavy. Her reaction to his touch was like a drug. He felt dizzy, flushed, more aroused than he had ever been in his life. Better than any high he had ever experienced.

"How'ya doin, Honey?" he whispered, as he brushed his cheek against hers.

"God, Chandler, it feels **so** good," she breathed, her words catching on the emotion, and he sighed deeply in response.

"You wanna feel **really** good?" he asked, smirking when she laughed softly, and then she nodded.

Shifting slightly, he slid his hand away from her breast, down to just above her knee, then started a slow ascent up her leg, and under her skirt.

"You're wearing underwear this time," he teased when he reached them, then dipped just his index finger beneath the elastic.

She gasped, but then whispered, "I only went commando **then**, cause I was hoping…"

When she trailed off, he sighed, then assured her, "I wanted to, Honey, believe me."

"I know," she whispered, then told him, "I don't want to **imagine** it's your hands, your fingers."

What she was asking of him, what she wanted, was clear. "With or without clothes?" he asked.

"Without," she answered, her voice quivering, and he smiled as he nuzzled into her hair.

"Don't worry, Honey," he whispered, "I'm gonna take **real** good care of you, ok?"

"I'm not worrying," she insisted, her words and tone still slightly shaky, "I'm… excited."

Nodding, he whispered, "It's ok to be nervous, your first time. I think everyone probably is," he added, then he extracted his arm from underneath her, shifted onto his knees, and scooted down the bed towards the foot of it. He removed her underwear and skirt at the same time, easily, then admired her beauty for a moment, but not too long so as to make her feel self conscious, before crawling back up to beside her.

"Aren't **you** going to take off any clothes?" she asked him, and he smirked as he shook his head.

"Later," he promised. "Right **now**, no," he added, then tucked his arm under and around her again as he gathered her to him.

"Were you nervous, your first time?" she asked, and he scoffed.

"Terrified," he admitted, then added, with a slight laugh, "Maybe **that's** why I sucked at it."

"Maybe I'll suck at it, too," she whispered, concern in her tone. "Besides the basic idea, I don't really know what to do," she added, then released a shaky sigh.

"As long as we make each other feel good, what does it matter?" he asked rhetorically, settling in and laying his head near hers, his chin resting on her shoulder. "In case you missed it, I've only had sex once, and I'm pretty sure it did **not** go well. It's not like I know much, either. I just know I want to touch you, and make you feel good. The rest, we'll, just, figure out as we go."

"You always know just what to say," she laughed softly, and then he did, too.

"Always," he whispered, asking as he kissed her shoulder, "Can I touch you now? And make you feel good?"

"Yes," she whispered, then opened her legs for him as his hand started drifting lower.

He grazed her skin with his fingertips, smiling when her body flinched beneath them, inching slowly but purposefully.

Finally, he was there, and they both moaned, first her, then him, before he whispered, breathlessly, "God, you're **so** wet."

"You have that effect on me," she replied, smirking, but the slight smile fell as his fingers began to explore.

"You have that effect on me, **too**," he told her, then asked, in a whisper, very near her ear, "Wanna feel?"

As soon as he felt her nod, he pressed himself firmly against her, then started to rock his hips, though just barely. She reacted noticeably, moaning softly and arching her back, and he groaned and increased the pressure when she did.

"You like that?" he asked, and she nodded, then hummed. Matching the sound, he whispered, "I bet it feels even better, without my pants in the way."

Smirking, she whispered back, "I bet it does, too."

Permission given, he made quick work of removing his clothes, hiding a smile when he caught her watching him, then he returned to her hastily, dropping his lips on hers and his hand back between her legs as he settled himself up against her.

It felt amazing. Way better than imagining. Better than anything she even expected. Far better than anything she had ever done by herself. She reached up, raked her fingers into his hair, and grabbed a fistful of the sandy brown strands, intensifying the kiss as he brought her closer to the edge bliss. She wanted it. Wanted him. Wanted to feel him cradled between her legs, lying on top of her, panting and moaning in her ear as he moved inside her.

Pulling him by the hair, breaking the kiss, she whimpered against his lips, "Chandler, please…"

He knew what she was asking. Nodding, he shifted away from her, then told her in a near-frantic whisper, "I bought stuff on my way over."

"Stuff?" she asked, watching him as he looked over the side of the bed.

"Protection," he answered, then asked, "Where the hell are my pants?"

"Floor, at the foot of the bed," she laughed, and he smiled as he quickly launched himself to the edge.

Snagging them off the floor, he fished into the pocket, grabbed what he was hunting for, then returned to her, waggling it playfully as he did.

"Protection," he repeated, and she smirked as she nodded. The expression faded seconds later, however, when reality set in, as she watched him roll the condom on himself.

She was about to lose her virginity, to the man she had most wanted to lose it to. Maybe he saw it in her eyes. Maybe he just understood. Or, maybe it was a combination of the two. He smiled reassuringly, then leaned in and kissed her lips softly.

"Big moment," he whispered, then asked, "How'ya feelin about that?"

"I'm nervous," she admitted, and he nodded.

"If you're not ready, we can wait," he told her, but she shook her head.

"I'm ready," she assured him, "I'm just nervous."

Nodding, he climbed between her legs and settled himself against her, then, nuzzling up to her ear, whispered, "I promise, I'm gonna take good care of you."

It was the third time he had said that. Curious, she asked, "Meaning what?"

He smirked. "I'm gonna go slow. Gently. I'm gonna love you the way you deserve to be loved."

Sighing, she whispered, "I'm ready," and he nodded as he kissed her neck, down to her shoulder, before positioning himself.

Watching her reaction closely, he entered her, carefully, moaning with her when she did, breathing her name and burying his face in her hair as he gathered her to him. The pace he set was slow, almost delicate, and the first thing that crossed her mind, was that it didn't hurt. She had fully expected it to. The expectation of that was part of why she had been so nervous. That, and the not knowing what to do part. But there didn't seem to be anything to know.

They fit together perfectly, moved together naturally, joined in a way that would make any words used in an attempt to describe it inadequate. There wasn't a part of her body that didn't feel the connection, whether it be emotionally or physically. It was amazing, and beautiful, just like he'd said it would be.

She was tense at first, understandably, but within seconds, she relaxed, and then she started to move with him. It was better than every dream. Every wish for reality. He knew without question, he would remember this moment, for the rest of his life.

"How we doin?" he whispered, though by the way she was moving beneath him, he had a strong inkling as to what her answer was going to be. He just wanted to hear her say it.

"**So** good," she sighed, and he nodded against her, in agreement.

"**So** good," he repeated, then mentioned, "You're not nervous anymore."

"I can't believe I ever was," she whispered. "I now know what my body has been aching for, for all this time," she added, then moaned again, and he sighed shakily at the sound.

"God, Honey, yes," he breathed, "Let me hear you. Let me hear how good it feels."

Each hum and moan of pleasure was matched and duplicated, Chandler only picking up the pace, though just slightly, when he sensed she was near release. And then they were there, and it **was** like music, their hearts singing, their souls crying out, just like the literary versions of themselves in his story.

He collapsed on top of her, but the heaviness of his body crushing her was a welcomed sensation. She wrapped her legs around his back, and her arms around his neck, clinging to him as they both panted and recovered.

"I love you," he whispered, and she smiled as she ran her fingers through his sweat-dampened hair at the nape of his neck.

"I love you, too," she whispered back, then asked playfully, "How many of those condoms, did you buy?"

Laughing, pushing back and supporting his weight on his arms, he gazed down at her as he answered, "A dozen."

"I guess we could just run to the store then," she quipped, and he laughed again.

"That good, huh?" he asked, rolling off and onto his side. They faced each other, his hand slipping onto her hip, her hand then sliding up to rest on his arm, and that was when she nodded in answer, smiling as she did. "I'm here for the day and night," he told her, "If you want me to stay."

Nodding, she then asked, "What about classes tomorrow?"

"You have an alarm clock, right?" he asked, and she laughed as she nodded. "I'll just have to get up extra early," he said with a smirk. "No biggie," he added, then leaned in and kissed her lips softly.

"You don't mind?" she asked, and he shook his head, slowly. Deliberately. "Will you do me a favor?" she then asked, and he nodded, his smile growing.

"Anything," he answered.

"When you leave in the morning, will you kiss me goodbye?" she asked; it surprised her, when he shook his head.

"No talking about goodbyes right now," he playfully scolded. "And, no, I won't **just** kiss you goodbye," he added, smirking. "You're gonna wake up **with** me," he told her, "And I'm gonna make love to you, and hold you in my arms, until the last possible second. Then, only when I absolutely have to, will I leave this bed. But I'm going to take you by the hand, when I do, and as you walk me to the door, I'm going to remind you of how much I love you. I'm going to pull you into my arms, and kiss you tenderly, then passionately, then tenderly again, and promise you that you will be back in my arms again soon… and you **know** I always keep my promises," he quipped, and she laughed, the tears of happiness that had started to well falling. He smiled as he brushed his fingers across her cheeks and into her hair, bringing her to him and pressing his lips gently to hers.

"You always know, just what to say," she whispered, and he chuckled softly as he pulled her close, up against his body.

"Always," he whispered, then nuzzled into her hair. "So," he asked after a moment, "Was it worth it? After all the angst and heartache, was it all worth it?"

"I'm not sure what you're asking," she answered, and he shifted away slightly to stare back at her, his hand playing with her hip and thigh.

"Would you go through it all again, just to get to **here**?" he asked, attempting to clarify, and then his fingers slid to between her closed legs, from behind, and she gasped.

"In a heartbeat," she answered, then moved her leg, the heel of her foot pushing into the mattress, to give him access and permission, and he smiled back at her.

"In a heartbeat," he repeated, then scooted away from her just enough so that he could slip his hand between her legs from the front, his smirk growing as she closed her eyes and dropped her head slightly, as he began to fondle her. "Look at me," he asked of her, and her eyes slowly drifted open and met his. "My hand, my fingers, taking you there," he whispered, and she nodded as her stare remained locked with his.

Timidly, she reached out and pressed her hand against him, rubbing him, and he smiled as he took it and helped her. "Like this," he instructed, demonstrating, then moaned in approval before returning his hand to her body. "Can I tell you something?" he asked, and she blinked heavily as she nodded. "I almost caved, the day we bought the blender," he admitted, then explained, "You told me you were waiting, and I asked, for what? I was just waiting for you to say 'you'," he told her, and she sighed.

"I wish I had then," she whispered, but he shook his head.

"We're here now," he said, "And that's all that matters."

"I thought you were closer to caving, the night you got arrested," she mentioned, and he laughed shortly.

"That took a God awful amount of willpower, trust me."

"Good," she teased, and he cocked an eyebrow.

"Why good?" he asked.

Shrugging, she answered, "I have an effect on you."

"In **every** way," he whispered, fighting to keep his eyes open and locked on hers when she moaned. "That's my favorite sound in the whole world," he breathed, and she moaned again, just to see his reaction.

"What were you thinking about," she asked, "During that, **phone conversation**?" The inflection she used, told him exactly which phone conversation she was referring to.

Laughing, he asked in return, "What do you **think**?" and she smirked as she glared back at him playfully. Sighing, he admitted, "I was… picturing you."

"I was picturing you, too," she whispered. "Doing **this**," she added, and he nodded, then smiled.

"It feels amazing, to be able to touch you like this," he sighed, breathlessly, and she nodded loosely, indistinctly, before finally allowing her eyes to close, her slight pant uneven and shaky. "You close, Honey?" he asked, and she nodded again, just barely, then bit her bottom lip. He stared back at her, mesmerized, smiling when the look of pleasure flickered over her face, and her soft groan indicated she was over the top and floating.

Her eyes slowly opened to find him watching her, and she smirked slightly, it dropping seconds later as she glanced down to where her hand still played with him. "Are **you** close?" she asked. "Or am I doing it wrong?"

"You're doing it **very** right," he answered, his smile growing, "It's just, gonna take a minute," he added, then relaxed and sighed as he allowed himself to concentrate on what she was doing. "So very right," he murmured, and she smiled, gaining confidence from his praise.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked, after several long seconds passed, and his closed eyes drifted open.

"You," he answered. "Always you," he added in a whisper, then slid his hand around to her back, in encouragement for her to lean towards him. Their lips met softly, the kiss gentle and easy, until he finally climbed and crashed over.

"We should clean up," she suggested, smirking when he groaned.

"You're a bit of a neat freak, you know that, right?" he teased, and she rolled her eyes as she moved to leave the bed.

"Just enough to be a good thing," she retorted playfully, then glanced over her shoulder and smiled as she walked out of the room.

He would follow her to the ends of the earth, as long as she looked at him like that. God, he was weak. He smiled and jumped off the bed, moving quickly to catch up with her, wrapping his arms around her and lifting her off the ground right before she reached the bathroom door. She squealed, but he only laughed as he carried her in, helping her to keep her balance by holding her waist when he set her down, once they were both in front of the sink.

"We should eat," he whispered, his chin resting on her shoulder, his arms snaking around her from behind. "For the night **we're** gonna have, we're gonna need our strength," he added, his inflection suggestive, and she laughed.

"I would offer to cook you something," she said, "But, I don't have much in the way of food."

"I'll take you grocery shopping tomorrow, then," he returned, then moved to wash up when she stepped away from the sink. "We'll just order in tonight," he added, then asked, "What'cha in the mood for?"

Shrugging, she answered, "We've done pizza and Chinese to death! Doesn't anything else deliver?"

"I think the pizza place has stuff besides pizza," he mentioned casually, then smiled as he took the towel from her outstretched hand. "Or, are you sick of Italian all together?"

"Anything without tomato sauce?" she asked, and his smile grew.

Just having a simple conversation with her, was better than the most thrilling conversation with anyone else.

"Alfredo?" he asked. "That's not red, it's white," he added, quirking an eyebrow when she laughed. "What's so funny?"

"I don't even know," she laughed again. "I'm just so fucking happy right now, I'm, like, giddy."

Wrapping her in his arms, grinning widely, he laughed, "I am, too, believe me! I almost kissed the guy who sold me the condoms," he quipped, and she gasped playfully.

"Taking after your father after all?" she teased, and he scoffed jokingly in response.

"Not **even**," he shot back, then whispered, "Let me deal with the food, ok? You go back and lie down," he added, "And I'll be back in a minute."

Leaning into him heavily, she nodded, then sighed as she shifted away and smiled. He smirked knowingly, then kissed her lips gently, watching her as she walked out of the bathroom and towards the bedroom. He hoped he always had that effect on her.

The food ordered and on the way, he stepped back into her room, their eyes locking as soon as he was inside. He jumped into bed, over and past her, then laughed as he told her, "I still think you shoulda gotten the waterbed!"

"It just woulda made us both seasick," she laughed in return, then shifted onto her side to face him. "Were you nervous, Monday night, when we…"

Even with her trailing off, he knew what she was asking. He'd promised they would talk about. She obviously wanted to. "More embarrassed, than nervous," he answered. "And, struggling with my conscience," he added with a sigh.

"You were embarrassed?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"That you'd caught me," he answered, "But, then, I was just… aroused," he admitted, his eyes locking with hers, curious to see what her reaction to that would be.

"I was, too," she told him, holding his gaze. "I wanted to touch you, **so** badly, but, I knew you would stop, and, I didn't want you to."

"I wasn't sure, about asking you to stay," he whispered. "It, just, sorta came out of my mouth," he added, and she nodded.

"I wasn't sure, about asking you to join me, in my room," she shared. "I just knew I wanted you to. Why did you?" she asked, then quickly clarified the question. "I mean, how did you get past your conscience?"

Smirking, he answered, "I looked for loopholes."

"What do you mean?" she asked, cocking an eyebrow, smirking back at him.

"Ross never said I couldn't… masturbate, in front of you," he answered, blushing slightly, simply from saying the word in front of her.

She laughed, not just because he blushed, but because of his reasoning as well, then asked, jokingly, "You honestly think Ross' head wouldn't have exploded?"

"I didn't care about that, at **that** moment," he answered, laughing as well, then he gained seriousness as he added, "I only knew, I wanted it. Wanted to watch you. Hear you. Be near you, at least, in **that** way."

Nodding in understanding, she then asked, "When did you start writing that story?"

"I started writing it, the day we went to dinner with my mom," he answered. "That's why I was running late," he added. "I was… engrossed, and lost track of time."

Surprised, she asked, "When did you **finish**?"

"Minutes before I called you," he answered, then scowled slightly, in curiosity, and asked, "Why?"

"You wrote something **that** amazing, in a week and a half? You are **so** gonna be a famous author someday!" she exclaimed, then snuggled up to him, settling in as he gathered her to him. "I wish you believed that," she added, almost wistfully, and he sighed.

"I'm trying to," he told her, then immediately added, "I'm **starting** to."

"Good," she whispered. "You just can't see it yet, cause you have low self esteem," she added, and he laughed.

"Says who?" he asked.

Shrugging, she said, "Monday night… when you asked me why I like you… I just assumed…"

"I only wanted to hear you list the reasons why you like me," he teased, but then added, honestly, "It's not really low self esteem. It's more like… a lack of confidence."

Laughing, she shot back, "Same thing!"

"Nuh-uh!" he countered. "Low self esteem means I think I'm worthless. Lack of confidence means, I think I have potential, I'm just not there yet!"

"That doesn't even make sense!" she snipped playfully. "You think you have potential, but you're not there yet, so you ask me why I like you?"

"I said, the only reason I asked you that, was cause I wanted to hear **why**!" he snipped back, laughing. "I liked your reasons, by the way," he added, and she rolled her eyes.

"I liked your reasons, too. For why **you** like **me**," she replied, then shifted her position to look over at him. "Did you mean them?" she asked, and he chuckled.

"**Now** who has low self esteem?" he teased, but then pulled her back against him and sighed as he added, "Every word, and some I haven't even said."

"Yeah?" she asked curiously. "Like what?"

Just then, there was a knock at the door, and he laughed as he moved to leave the bed. "Sorry, Mon, can't answer that. I gotta go get the door," he added, then grabbed his pants off the floor, stepped into them hastily, and as he was still working them up into position, hopped out of the room.

When he returned, minutes later, he was carrying a round foil container, two forks, and two sodas, and was wearing a silly grin.

"We're eating in **here**?" she asked, her tone showing her surprise, and slight disapproval, but he just laughed in response.

"We won't get anything on your pretty new flower sheets, don't worry," he assured her, then added, "And if we **do**, I'll buy you a new set. Deal?"

She smirked and rolled her eyes, then nodded. "Fine," she huffed playfully, then sat up and reached for her clothes.

"Ah-ah," he said, grabbing her wrist. "No getting dressed," he told her, firmly but teasingly, then snagged her clothes off the floor and tossed them to the far corner of the room. Then, kneeling onto the bed, carefully, so as not to disturb the food, he crawled up to her, kissed her lips quickly, and whispered, "I want you naked, till I leave tomorrow morning."

"That's a whole lotta naked!" she laughed, and then he did, too, as he nodded emphatically. "So," she asked, as he handed her a fork, and then opened the container of Alfredo noodles, "You gonna answer my question?"

He knew what she was referring to, but decided to play with her. "What question?" he asked, hiding a smirk, and then he laughed when she scoffed.

"What things haven't you said to me yet? About what you like about me?" She scoffed again when he shook his head.

"Gotta save something for the second date," he answered, then immediately started digging into the food. "Did you mean it," he asked after a moment, almost hesitantly, "When you said, you think I'm cute?"

When her silence brought his full attention up to her, she smiled back at him. "You're more than just cute, Chandler," she assured him. "You are the sexiest man I know."

Laughing, he shot back, "Oh, come on! Sexy? Cute, maybe," he conceded, "But **sexy**?"

Hiding a smile, pretending to be seriously thinking, she muttered, "Let me see if I can put this in words you'll understand." Acting as if she had decided on the right ones, she told him, "You're seriously sexy, Dude."

He laughed, then shrugged. "If you say so, Dude," he said, as if indifferent, then went back to eating.

"Chandler?" she whispered, and he looked back up at her. "You're incredibly sexy," she insisted, "And I love you."

Smiling, he asked, "Are you done with the noodles?"

Nodding, knowing why he'd asked, she answered, "For now."

He quickly set the container, forks, and unopened sodas on the floor beside the bed, then sprawled out and called to her with just a gesture of his hooked index finger.

Sliding up beside him, she asked, "We ready to use condom number two?" and he laughed.

"Well, give me a minute," he joked, then draped a leg over both of hers and pressed himself against her. Moaning when she did, he started rubbing, then asked in a whisper, "Ready to try the gotta-have-you-now thing? Or, did we still wanna go for the tender thing?"

Moaning again, she whispered back, "Gotta-have-you-now," and he smiled as he kissed her neck, and nuzzled against her.

His affections almost instantly geared up, his hand cupping her breast, his lips latching onto the soft, tight skin between neck and shoulder, but when she tensed in response, he eased up.

"Too much too fast?" he asked, as his lips brushed across her ear, and she sighed shakily before answering.

"It sounded good in my head, but, when you actually started doing it…"

Sensing she was anxious again, by her tone, and by the way she trailed off, he whispered reassuringly, "Hey, it's no biggie, ok? We can go fast, or slow, or anything in between. I just want to be with you," he added, pulling back and staring down on her. "I just want to hold you, and touch you, and love you. God, I love you," he breathed, dropping his lips onto hers, his hand then resting carefully on her hip as he kissed her without demands or expectations.

His lips were soft, his tongue gently caressing and playing with hers, and something in Monica swelled. Love, desire, need; her slight fears seemed so small and insignificant, in comparison. She knew she could trust him, not that she had doubts about that before, it was just more obvious in that moment, as he kissed her and touched her, like her wants and happiness were the most important things to him. Something snapped.

Her kisses grew hungrier, her fingertips and nails digging into his scalp, urging him closer, and he hid a smile as he followed her lead. There was definitely something to be said about gotta-have-you-now. Hands were everywhere in a flurry of movement, the pants he had put back on to answer the door off in a flash. The protection retrieved and in place, he climbed between her legs and settled in, but he only slowed the pace long enough to ease inside her.

It was passionate. Raw. Intense. She hooked her legs around his back and met his every thrust, moaning loudly, both of them sighing the other's name when they finally ascended and toppled over.

And then he gathered her into his arms, pulling her quivering body close to his. Kissing her temple, he whispered, "I love you. I've wanted to be with you like this, for **so** long."

She smiled when she recognized the similarities, from the final moments of the story he had written for her, about them. He was such a romantic. She doubted many guys were. At least, not as much as **he** was. "I know," she whispered back. "Me, too," she added, and he kissed her temple again, allowing his lips to linger and caress.

"I know," he said with a smirk, then sighed contentedly.

What was the record, for how many times two people had made love in the same evening? He suppressed a laugh as that question hit him. He was going to be sore in the morning, but he didn't care. It was a small price to pay. Maybe they **would** go through all twelve condoms. He laughed.

"What's so funny?" she asked, and he laughed again.

"I don't think I bought enough condoms," he answered, and then she laughed, too. "C'mere," he whispered, directing her, "Come lay on top of me. I wanna feel you, pressed against me," he added, his hands on her waist, helping her as she moved and complied. It felt amazing. "Comfortable?" he asked, and she nodded as she slid down to rest her head on his shoulder, near his chest. Moaning, he suggested, "Let's try **this** position next," as he rocked up into her. He was already becoming aroused again, just from the slight friction.

Smirking, she muttered playfully, "Definitely didn't buy enough condoms," then asked, "Are we gonna sleep **at all** tonight?"

"Enough," he laughed, then told her, seriously, "We've waited **so** long for this, I just, want to make the most of it, ya'know?"

One hand stroked her back as the other did her hair, and she sighed softly, then nodded just barely in response. "This is my **new** favorite night of all time," she whispered, and he hummed in agreement.

"Mine, too," he said. "But," he quipped, "Let's try to top it tomorrow night, ok?"

"Every night," she whispered, "Until we're sick of each other."

"That'll **never** happen," he insisted. "**Trust** me."

Never. There was no way of knowing what the future held, but she couldn't imagine, ever loving another person as much as she loved Chandler. Maybe this was it. Maybe they would get married some day. Maybe even have kids. It was way too soon to discuss it, but she couldn't help thinking about it. She couldn't help daydreaming about it, as she listened to his heartbeat, while resting on top of him, his arms protectively around her.

"What'cha thinkin about, Honey?" he asked, after she fell silent for several moments, her soft sighs telling him something was definitely on her mind.

"You," she answered. "And how much I love you," she added, smiling as she shifted to look down on him. "You?" she asked, and he smiled in return, and encouraged her to lay her head back down, onto his chest.

"Always you," he whispered, and she hummed in response.

"Maybe we're thinking the same thing," she murmured.

His smile grew as he kissed the top of her head. "Maybe."

She was dying to know. She wondered if he'd even answer it. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Sure," he answered.

Keep it vague. "Where do you see yourself, in ten, or maybe fifteen years?"

The longer it took him to answer, the more certain she was that he was working out his response. He knew what she was asking.

"Well," he eventually said, "If you're right at all, I'll be a published author. Hopefully, I'll have love in my life," he added, his arms tightening around her, "And we'll be wanting the same kind of future. But, mostly, I just hope to be happy. Surrounded by people I love, and that hopefully love me, too."

Her smile grew. "You always know just what to say," she whispered.

"Always," he laughed softly, then asked, "What about you? Same question."

"Hopefully, I'll be a chef," she answered, "And be at least somewhat successful at it. Hopefully, the love of my life will **still** be that," she said, kissing his chest, "And we'll be wanting the same kind of future," she added, repeating his words. "Also surrounded by people I love, and that love me. And, just, happy with where I'm at, and where I'm going."

"Awesome answer," he told her, and she laughed, which brought a grin to his face. "You could be a writer, too!" he added, and she laughed again, then scoffed.

"I think I'll leave that to **you**," she told him, then murmured, almost dreamily, "I could stay like this forever."

"Hard to graduate college," he quipped, "If we never go to class." But then he hummed, like he was in full endorsement of the idea, and she matched the sound, and the pitch perfectly in response, letting him know in that way, that she caught it and understood.

"When did you know you were in love with me?" she asked, almost suddenly.

"When did I **fall**," he asked in return, "Or when did I **know**?"

"Either," she answered, then immediately added, "Both."

"I **knew**, the day you came over, to proofread that essay I wrote, about underwater basket weaving. But, thinking back, which I've been doing **a lot** lately," he added, "I'm pretty sure I was starting to fall, a couple weeks after Ross caught us. Same question, please," he asked of her, playfully, and she laughed.

"I **knew**, a few weeks before I proofread that essay," she answered. "But, I started falling… about the same time as **you**," she realized, then laughed again and pulled back to stare down on him. "The day we went to the movies, and we were sharing that bucket of popcorn--"

"And our hands kept brushing!" he interrupted, and then they both started laughing. "Wow," he mused, "Same day, even."

Smiling, she laid her head back down, then asked after a moment, as her smile faded slightly, "Tell me about your conversation with Ross?"

Shrugging he told her, "I just, explained it to him. Said, we're in love, and want to be in a relationship--"

"Did he freak?" she asked, somewhat cutting him off, surprised when he shook his head.

"Not really," he answered, sounding a bit surprised, himself. "He seemed shocked, more than anything. I told him we hadn't **done** anything, so, if he asks, that's the answer to **that** question," he added, and she nodded. "But," he continued, "We, just, talked it out. Told him I'm off weed for good, which he seemed shocked about, too, and then, I just, asked for his blessing. Told him, if he couldn't give it, we'd just remain friends."

"Do you think we would have?" she asked curiously.

"Would have what?" he asked in return. "**Just** remained friends?" She nodded. "Honestly," he answered, then paused before whispering, "No. I probably woulda kept pestering him, till he caved," he added with a laugh, to which she nodded.

"If **you** weren't going to," she semi-quipped, "I know **I** would have!"

Laughing, then sighing, he admitted, "I just, couldn't do it anymore, Mon. I couldn't keep my feelings to myself. Couldn't keep distancing myself, when all I wanted to do was gather you into my arms, and love you."

"Was it Monday night, that changed it around for you?" she asked, and he shrugged.

"Probably," he answered, "But, it had been coming for a while, ya'know? I think Nana's story, set it up, more than anything. I was just trying to get through, day by day, telling myself that **tomorrow**, things would be better, and I'd be able to walk the line. But after her story, I think I really saw it all past the day by day of it. I saw us, forty years from now, alone in our separate livingrooms, staring off into space and wondering, what if. It scared me."

Nodding, she asked, "Am I really the most important person in your world?"

"Honey," he answered, "You **are** my world."

Smiling, she whispered, "I think we're ready to use that third condom now."

"Like… **this**?" he asked, optimistically, and she laughed as she nodded. "Cool," he whispered, then reached over and grabbed a little foil package off the nightstand. "Help me out with this?" he asked of her, and she nodded again as she sat up, took the condom from him, and moved lower.

Even that simple, timid touch from her, aroused him. Day by day, week by week, month by month, and he was going to enjoy every second of them with her. The future was wide open, but he couldn't imagine it without her in it, and he didn't want to. He helped her to ease down onto him, and it was instantly amazing. As was every time they were together after that, until exhaustion demanded they sleep.

In the morning, he did exactly what he said he was going to. He hit the alarm, wanting to be the one to wake Monica, then made love to her and held her until he knew he would be late, if he didn't leave. Right before walking out the door, he kissed her, promised to see her again after classes, then kissed her again.

From angst ridden and miserable to happier than he had ever been in his life. He wore a silly grin all the way back to his dorm room, grabbing a change of clothes quietly, so as not to disturb Ross, but the tactic didn't work.

"Well?"

Startled, Chandler spun around, locking eyes with Ross. "Well, what?"

Ross rolled his eyes and sat up. "I don't want the details… In fact, if you try to give 'em to me, I'll kill you, but, just, is everything good now?"

"Yeah, Man," Chandler replied, turning away to hide the smile he couldn't stop from appearing. "Everything is great."

"Cool," Ross muttered, then asked, "What time is it, anyway?"

"About ten after seven," Chandler answered. "I'm just gonna grab a quick shower," he added, then headed towards the door, smirking when Ross groaned.

"This is gonna be weird," Ross mentioned as he moved to leave his bed. "Just, keep things to yourself, Man, ok?" he asked of him. "There's some things I just **don't** want to know about my sister."

"No problem," Chandler said with an upnod, then disappeared out the door.

Ross smirked to himself as he stepped over to his closet, in search of clothes, preparing to start his day. His slight smile grew as he muttered quietly, "Least he's happy about something other than weed."

**To be continued**

Author's notes:

Ok, so, what did we think? Did it live up to the hype? Was all the angst worth it? Is the lynch mob that started to gather dispersing? (smirk)

Still need feedback, on whether or not I should do an epilogue. Have tons of ideas, but if no one cares to see them, I won't bother with it.

If I do an epilogue… **after** the epilogue, I will get working on the sequel to 'Mengliad'.

By the way, this is the longest chapter in this series. Just FYI there.

Reviews are ever so important to me (batting eyelashes). Please, won't you review?

MTLBYAKY


	11. Chapter 11

**The One Where Chandler Gets High**

By: Jana

**Chapter Eleven - Epilogue**

**XXX**

--"If Carol is a lesbian, how could you get her pregnant?" Joey asked, completely confused and trying to understand, to which Ross rolled his eyes.

"She was in denial," he answered, slightly annoyed, "And we **were** still married at the time," he added.

"That last time," Phoebe interjected, "Was probably what pushed her over the edge."

Glaring back at her, Ross muttered sarcastically, "Yeah, thanks. I wasn't having a hard enough time with this."

"I don't think it works that way," Rachel offered, and at first, Ross was grateful for her comment, until she continued. "Even if you were a **horrible** lover, it wouldn't have **turned** her gay! She probably just **realized** it, that last time," she added, and Ross exhaled sharply as he threw himself back in his chair.

Seeing his frustration, Monica changed the subject. "Well, so, how was the appointment?"

"It was ok," Ross sighed, "But Susan and I fought," he added, then leaned forward to grab his cup of coffee off the table in front of him.

"Why?" Monica asked, and Ross sighed again.

"They want to name the baby Minnie Willick Bunch," he answered.

"A bit effeminate, for a boy," Phoebe mused.

"You're missing the point, Pheebs," Ross muttered, his irritation over the conversation rising. "It's **my** kid," he explained, "Not **hers**! Why does she get **her** name in there, and I **don't**?"

"Did you talk to Carol about it?" Monica asked, and he nodded only in response, offering nothing further. Sighing when it seemed he had no intention of elaborating, she then asked, "And what did **she** say?"

Ross shrugged. "It never really got resolved. The doctor came in," he added, then shook his head before tipping the mug to his lips and taking a drink. "I'll talk to her about it later," he grumbled, "When **Susan** isn't around."

"Hey! Great! Everyone's here!" Chandler announced excitedly, almost instantly upon entering, approaching quickly with a stack of identical books in his arms. "Check it out!" he said as he set his burden down on the coffee table, plucking the top one off the pile and holding it up for all to see. "Hot off the presses!" He only showed it off for a moment, before handing it directly to Monica, wanting her opinion above anyone else's.

"Oh my God," she gasped, her smile widening, "The artwork is amazing! I mean, it doesn't look anything like us," she added, "But, you said it wouldn't."

"And you'll notice," he quipped, "Everyone is properly dressed, and no one's hair is blowing in the nonexistent wind!"

Nodding, Monica smirked up at him, as he continued to stand over her, then she flipped the book over to skim through the summary, and to admire the picture of her boyfriend above it. "And you think you can't take a good picture!" she teased him.

"You're biased," he laughed, then, taking the book away from her, he turned it over, thumbed a few pages in, and handed it back to her.

She knew what it was, before she even started reading. "For her continuing and constant support and encouragement. For the love she shows me every day. For always believing in me, and helping me to believe in myself. For everything she does and everything she is, I dedicate this, my first of hopefully many books, to her. To my wife, Monica. May I always make her proud--" She stopped abruptly, her smile dropping as shock inched into her expression.

Her eyes slowly lifted to find his, and his heart began to race. He smiled down on her for several moments, nervously, before whispering jokingly, "If your answer is 'no', we'll just say that the first hundred thousand copies had a misprint."

Still in slight disbelief, it wasn't until Chandler dropped to one knee in front of her, that she truly realized what was happening. "Oh my God," she whispered, and his smile grew, before fading all but a little.

"Do you want to do this **now**, in front of everyone?" he asked in a whisper, "Or do you want to wait till later, when we can be alone?"

There was no way she could wait, knowing what was coming. The whole world could've been staring at her, and it wouldn't have mattered. He was the only other person in the room, in that moment. "Now," she squeaked out, and he grinned back at her in understanding.

"I have loved you, more and more each day, for the past four years. I always knew you were my future, Monica, and now I know, just what I want that future to be. I want to give you your happily ever after. I want to be the one to love you, and make you happy, forever and ever, until death parts us."

Tears falling to her cheeks, she whispered, "You always know just what to say," and he laughed softly in response.

"Always," he whispered back, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a small velvet ring box, which just made Monica's tears fall faster. He knew what her answer was going to be, but until he heard it, until it was official, his adrenalin wreaked havoc on his heart and stomach. "Honey," he asked, as he opened the ring box, and as his slight smile dropped, "Will you marry me?"

"How much would it suck, if I said 'no'?" she quipped, and he laughed again, but only because she extended her left hand towards him as she said it, essentially giving him the opposite answer.

Removing the ring from the box, he held it at the ready, but stopped short of slipping it on. "I need to **hear** your answer," he whispered, then held his breath unknowingly.

"Like my answer would be anything but yes," she said, almost laughing as she cried. She only glanced at the gorgeous blue sapphire and diamond ring while he slid it on, before locking eyes with him.

Friends and family sat in quiet shock, amazed and excited and completely glued to the event happening before their eyes. It was only after Chandler pushed off the floor, pulling Monica up to stand with him and gathering her into his arms, that the trance was broken.

"Well it's about time!" Ross exclaimed, then one by one, starting with him, they all stepped over and added an extra person to the group hug that was forming.

Congratulations and words of the like spilled over top of one-another, the spectacle of it bringing attention to them, but no one seemed to care.

"So, when?" Rachel asked abruptly, as everyone began to retake their seats, adding more specifically, "Like, do you have a date in mind?"

"We just got engaged, three seconds ago, Rache," Chandler laughed, pulling Monica into his lap as he dropped onto the couch, where she had before been sitting. Snaking his arms around her, he added, more for Monica's benefit than Rachel's, "One thought I had, though, was, on the anniversary of when we first got together."

"I **love** that idea," Monica whispered to him, smiling wider as they became lost in each other's gaze.

"So, is this book **really** about you guys?" Phoebe asked, essentially breaking the spell they seemed to be under.

Chandler reluctantly looked away from Monica and over at blonde questioning him. "Yeah," he answered, then asked, "Why?"

"Reading the summary," she answered, as she glanced over it, "Seems like it's full of angst and stuff. Just, doesn't seem to describe you guys," she added with a shrug. She quirked an eyebrow, when Chandler and Monica both started laughing.

"Oh, **trust** me," Chandler told her, "At the start of it, all it was, was angst."

"How so?" Rachel asked curiously, snagging a book off the top of the stack and reading through the summary herself.

"We were madly in love, but couldn't be together," Monica answered, noticing that Ross seemed slightly antsy about the conversation that had started.

"Why?" Phoebe asked, tossing a book to Joey when he gestured for her to.

Monica glanced at Chandler, then towards Ross, before dropping her gaze to her lap. Answering that question wasn't as easy as it may have seemed. Upsetting her brother and opening old wounds was the last thing she wanted to do.

"They're gonna figure it out, once they read the book," Ross muttered, and Monica abruptly locked eyes with him. He gave a tiny smirk and a shrug, then signaled with a slight wave of his hand for her to go ahead and share with the group.

"We made a promise," Monica explained, "To just remain friends."

"To who?" Joey asked, slow to catch on, and everyone, including Ross, rolled their eyes.

"To me," Ross answered, then sighed as he gave the book's summary his slightly distracted attention.

"I don't understand," Phoebe said with a confused scowl. "Why did you need to promise Ross, to just remain friends?"

"He didn't want us dating," Chandler answered, then added after a momentary pause, "Back then."

"Why?" Rachel asked, pressing further for a more specific answer, and Chandler sighed in response.

"Once they read the book," Monica offered, "You **know** they're gonna ask these questions anyway. Might as well answer them **now**," she suggested, and he sighed again before nodding.

"Ross didn't want his sister dating a pothead," Chandler informed, smirking when everyone but Monica and Ross gasped.

Uncharacteristically, Joey caught on immediately. "Whoa! You were a pothead?"

"Yes," Chandler answered, leaning his head against Monica's when she rested hers on his shoulder.

"How much of a pothead were you?" Phoebe asked, her surprise showing through in her tone. "Occasional?"

Shaking his head, Chandler answered, "Pretty much every day. Or at least multiple times a week," he added, suppressing a laugh when everyone gasped again.

"I didn't know that about you!" Joey announced, almost complaining, "And we lived together for two years!"

"It's not something I go around advertising, Joe," Chandler sighed, then added, somewhat dismissively, "It's no big deal. It's not like I do it anymore."

"Why didn't you just offer to quit it?" Rachel asked, "So that Ross would let you date her?"

"I didn't know that was why he didn't want us to, at the time," Chandler answered. "I just knew he didn't want us to."

"So, then, what happened?" Phoebe asked. "Why did you give it up? How did the two of you end up together?"

"Read the book!" Chandler laughed, then added simply, and somewhat seriously, "I gave it up, cause it was time."

"You gave it up, before or after you two started dating?" Phoebe asked, but it was Monica who answered.

"Before. Why does it matter?" she asked in return, with a slight edge to her tone, and Chandler held her tighter when he picked up on it.

"I was just curious," Phoebe answered with an indifferent shrug.

"So, you gave it up, started dating Monica, and then you never smoked it again?" Rachel asked. When Chandler and Monica shared looks and laughed, Rachel cocked an eyebrow, and Ross' attention shot over to them.

"Dude! You broke your promise?" Ross snipped at Chandler.

Rolling her eyes, Monica snipped back at her brother, in Chandler's defense, "**I** was the one who wanted to, Ross, ok? Don't get weird!"

"Why?" he challenged. "When?"

"Last day at Alessandro's, a few months back," Monica sighed. "The busboys gave me some, as a goodbye present…"

**Flashback**

--Monica stepped through the door cautiously but quickly, just happy to be off the streets. How Chandler could do that on a weekly basis, back in college, she would never understand. Her nerves were shot. She was certain that everyone who even glanced at her, knew she had it on her.

"Chandler? You home, Sweetie?" she called out, hanging her coat, but continuing to clutch her purse.

"Hey, Honey! In the bedroom!" he called out, then appeared a moment later. He could tell something was off, the second his eyes met hers. "What's wrong?" he asked, slightly worried, approaching with rapid and efficient steps.

"Nothing," she assured him, then gestured towards the couch. "I **do** need to talk to you, though."

Terror shot through him. No good conversation started with that line. "Ok," he drawled, watching her closely as he took a seat, and still as she took hers. "Is this a… bad talk?"

"Not exactly," she answered, then smiled reassuringly. "It's a… weird talk."

Realizing by that, that their relationship was not in jeopardy, he quirked an eyebrow, then asked curiously, "What's going on, Mon?"

Nervously, she reached into her purse, fisted the little foil ball, and asked, "You haven't smoked weed at all, have you? Since you made the promise?"

"No, I haven't," he answered, slightly on the defensive, then asked in return, "Why?"

"I'm not accusing, Chandler," she insisted, and he relaxed a little. "I'm just… confirming," she added, then sighed as she removed her hand from her purse. "The busboys thought it would be funny, to give me this as a going away present," she told him, and then opened her hand so that he could see what was in it.

He knew what it was, before he even unwrapped it. Hesitantly, he took it from her and opened it slowly, then glanced up at her for several moments, before dropping his eyes down to it. "Your busboys have a good connect," he said jokingly, though he meant it truthfully, then brought the nugg closer to his face and inhaled deeply.

"Do you miss it?" she asked, and he opened his eyes and stared over at her as he set his hand back into his lap.

"I did a little, in the beginning," he answered honestly, "But, I haven't really thought about it much, lately."

Nodding, she told him, "I know how you feel, about breaking your promises, and I don't want you to feel guilty, so, if you say 'no', I'll totally understand! But," she added, carefully, "Would you maybe want to…?"

She trailed off, but he knew what she was asking. "Did **you** want to?" When she nodded, he asked, "Why?"

"I don't know exactly," she said with a shrug. "Just, for old time's sake, maybe?"

"I didn't think you ever really cared much for it," he said with a scowl of confusion, and she shrugged again.

"Not as much as **you** did," she admitted, "But, I liked it ok." There was a long pause, and then she avoided his eyes, before asking, almost timidly, "Remember how horny I used to get, when high?"

A tiny smirk appeared as he nodded. "Yeah, I remember," he whispered, understanding then, why she was interested.

"We've never been high, and… **together**," she mentioned, and he nodded again. "I was just… curious," she explained, nervously, then finally met his stare once again.

Smiling, he whispered, "Being with you, is better than **any** high. But," he added, "If this is something you **truly** want to do, I'm up for it."

"Will it make you want to go back to it?" she asked, with slight concern. When he shook his head in answer, she asked, "How sure are you? I don't want to do this, if it's gonna make you want it again."

"I promise you, Mon," he assured her, "If we do this, it'll be this time only. You **know** I keep my promises," he added, and she laughed in response.

"I know you do," she whispered, then asked, "If we do this, how would we? You don't have a pipe, and I don't want you buying one, just for this."

A sly grin exploded across his face. "Gravity bong," he answered, and she scowled in response. "I just need a pencil, a soda bottle, and a bucket," he explained, and her scowl deepened, which caused him to laugh. "Leave the construction of it to me," he suggested, then kissed her lips softly, before heading off in search of the items he was going to need.

Curiously, she watched him as he put each item to use. He used a screwdriver to punch a hole in the empty soda bottle's cap, and then he punched several in the bottom of the bottle. He took the pencil, pulled out the eraser, detached the metal piece that had been housing it, and then forced it carefully into the hole he had created in the bottle cap. After filling the bucket about halfway with water, he then filled the soda bottle, while it was in the bucket, so that the water wouldn't drain out from the holes he had created in the bottom of it.

"The metal piece from the pencil, we use like the bowl," he explained to her, as he broke up the nugg and started filling it. "When I spark it, **while** sparking it, I start to lift the bottle out of the water, and the gravity or suction of that drags the smoke into the bottle. Once the water is completely out of the bottle," he added, "We hit it." He then flicked the lighter, that they only owned for the purposes of lighting candles, and applied it to the bowl.

Because of the size of the makeshift bowl, he had to refill it three times, but finally, the bottle was white with smoke, and the water was completely drained from it.

"You hit it first," she asked of him, wanting a visual on how to do it before attempting it herself. He smiled and nodded as he unscrewed the cap, set it aside, and ripped it hard.

A sea of memories hit him all at once, and he smirked in appreciation, then handed it over to her, exhaling quickly so that he could tell her, "It hits real smooth, so, you should be able to rip it pretty hard."

At first, she was cautious, but as she took her turn, and began to realize that he was right, she hit it harder, then passed it back to him.

"If it was legal," she asked him after exhaling, "Would you want to smoke it?"

Shrugging, he answered, "Maybe. But, not as often as I used to," he added, then asked, "You?"

"Maybe," she answered, smirking when he did, then took her turn after him.

By the time the bottle was cleared, they were both feeling it.

"How'ya doin, Honey?" he asked, and she laughed as she leaned heavily into him. "Me, too," he chuckled, then shifted positions and raked his hand into her hair. He stared back at her for a long moment, a slight smile on his face, before pressing his lips to hers soundly. "Horny yet?" he asked, laughing when she did, but then she nodded, slowly and deliberately, her eyes, filled with desire, locking with his, and the smile disappeared from his face as he swallowed hard. Even after all their years together, she still had an effect on him.

When she stripped off her shirt and bra, his hand immediately cupped her breast, fondling the taut skin, and she moaned in response. The sound of her enjoyment shot through him, pleasantly, and he copied the sound a second later, forcing his eyes to stay open so he could watch her expressions.

"Lie back for me," he asked of her, and she nodded weakly as she complied instantly. Climbing between her legs, he leaned into her, dropping his head to her shoulder as he began to rock his hips. It was familiar but unique, all at the same time.

"I want you inside me," she whimpered, and he shuddered at the sound of desperate need in her voice.

"Soon, Honey," he whispered. "I want to try something first."

Every moan and sigh of pleasure was like an amazing and wanted form of torture. Struggling against his body's natural instincts, he fought to stave off his release, whispering words of encouragement in the hope of bringing hers on quicker. It worked.

Finally, she was there, and when she cried out, he did, too, even though he hadn't joined her in that place of bliss. Pressing firmly into her but ceasing all movement, he let her control the motions needed as she rode out the aftershocks, then, only after she relaxed beneath him, did he ask, "Honey, can you stand?"

"I think so," she whimpered, asking in a distant, far off tone of voice, "Why?"

"We need to go into the bedroom now," he answered, pushing up off of her and standing, gazing down on her with a smirk when she made no attempt to join him. Deciding she was too weak to move, he scooped her into his arms and carried her to the bed, climbing in with her after laying her gently upon it. "Are you still horny?" he asked, almost worriedly and desperate for relief. When she nodded, her eyes still closed, he sighed heavily, gratefully, then asked, "Can I take your pants off?"

She nodded again, and he jumped into action. Stripping his own clothes off quickly, after carefully removing hers, he slid up next to her, then made it known to her that he wanted her to open her legs for him by applying gentle pressure to her inner, upper thigh. He dropped his hand between them the moment she complied, then whispered in her ear, "Just my hand. Just my fingers."

She smirked when she realized what he was doing. He was recreating the moments that he had been forced, or felt otherwise obligated to stop, all the times they had been high before, back in college. "Were you close to cumming that day, Chandler?" she asked him. "The day Ross caught us?"

"Insanely close," he answered, breathing heavily, urgently, as he nuzzled into her hair.

"It **was** a well deserved 'A'," she whispered, and he moaned in response.

"I won't stop you this time," he promised, then repositioned himself when she shifted to move. He let out a low, guttural groan when she wrapped her hand around him.

"The time **you** initiated it," she asked him curiously, "Why did you? What happened?"

"I'd had three bowls and lost my head," he answered, his mind more on what she was doing, than what she was asking. "The smell of you. The feel of you. I snapped," he added, then moaned as he lurched closer. "I know it messed with your head, and I'm sorry," he apologized, his eyes drifting open to find hers.

Smiling back at him, she whispered, "You've **more** than made up for it, through the years."

Smiling first in appreciation, it dropped as he asked her, his tone that of pleasurable pain, "Are you almost there, Honey? I'm on the brink, and I have no more staying power."

When she didn't answer, and only removed her hand from his body in response, he groaned in disappointment and agony, quickly reaching to finish the job himself. He groaned again when she stopped him, which brought an almost wicked smile to her face.

"Honey, please," he begged, but she shushed him and placed a single finger to his lips.

"Trust me," she whispered, then near immediately, began to climb on top of him.

"Oh, God, Honey, shit, yes, please," he babbled, breathlessly, gripping her waist and helping her to ease down onto him. It sent him instantly over the edge. "Oh, fuck, I'm sorry," he whispered hoarsely, but she only smiled in return.

**End Flashback**

--"…And then we got… affectionate," Monica concluded, purposefully leaving out the details of the rest of the evening, even though she remembered them vividly.

"So, right before you started at Javu's?" Ross asked challengingly. "What if they had drug tested you?"

Rolling her eyes, Monica answered with slight exasperation, "I was already **hired**! They weren't about to drug test me **after** hiring me! Besides," she added, "I don't look like the type to do drugs."

Exhaling sharply at the dismissal of his concerns, Ross then turned his attention towards Chandler, asking just short of angrily, "That was the first and only time, since you promised?"

"Yes, Ross," Chandler sighed, smirking discreetly, but Monica caught it and laughed.

"What's so funny?" Ross asked, his irritation rising, to which Monica rolled her eyes again.

"Stop being so paranoid!" she shot back, more impatient than mad, then pushed off Chandler's lap and reached for his hand. "C'mon," she asked of him, "Let's go celebrate our engagement."

In total support of her suggestion, he stood and allowed her to lead them both towards the exit. "Don't come knocking," he called over his shoulder to their friends, then smirked and followed her out the doors of Central Perk and onto the street. "Do you like the ring, Honey?" he asked, lacing his fingers through hers, and she smiled over at him, almost seductively.

"Very much," she answered, in a whisper, then added, "Let's go upstairs, so I can show you how much."

"I'm gonna get lucky tonight," he joked, and she laughed.

"Don't you **most** nights?" she teased, and a wide grin inched across his face.

Nodding, he wondered, "Do you suppose it'll feel any different, as a betrothed couple?"

He pronounced it wrong, so she corrected him, playfully, then whispered, "If it gets any better than it's **been**, I think we'll need to submit ourselves to the world record books."

"You sure know how to stroke my ego," he laughed, and she smirked slyly back at him, before unlocking the door and leading the way into their apartment.

"Among other things," she quipped, then immediately asked, "Can we make a few phone calls first?"

"Phone calls?" he asked, playfully incredulous. "To?"

"Nana, for one," she answered, and he smiled back at her in understanding.

"Yeah," he said in agreement, "We should definitely call Nana. And for two?" he asked.

"Your mom?" she answered, in the form of a question, smiling sheepishly as she anticipated his response.

Groaning, he muttered, "Couldn't we just send her the invitation, and have her find out **that** way?"

"You know she loves you!" she shot back, laughing, then grabbed the cordless phone, glanced back at him over her shoulder, and headed for their room.

God, he was whipped. But, he loved that he was. He would follow her into a burning building, as long as she looked at him like that. Smirking, he wandered in after her, his smile growing when she looked up at him from her seat on the edge of the bed, her eyes soft and sexy as she extended the phone towards him.

"Me?" he asked, and she nodded.

"Just, for the book part," she answered. "Hand the phone to me, for the engagement part," she added, and he nodded as he took the phone and dialed the number by heart.

"Nana! Hey, it's Chandler!" he said into the phone, after she picked up, grinning when she greeted him in the excited way she always did.

"CB! Sweetie! How are you?"

"Oh, I'm real good, Nana. Real good." Taking a seat beside Monica on the bed, he announced, "I have some **good** news!"

"Oh, well, that's always better than crappy news! Lay it on me!"

Laughing shortly, he then told her, "I just got my advance copies of my book!"

"Wonderful! I'm so proud of you, CB! **So** proud!"

"Thanks, Nana. I'm kinda proud of me, too," he stated modestly, smiling over at Monica when she nudged his shoulder with hers.

"So, when do I get **my** copy? Don't tell me I have to wait, like regular folk, for it to hit the shelves!"

"Of course not!" he assured her, laughing again. "I'm gonna get your copy out in the mail, first thing tomorrow!"

"You're not just tellin an old coot what she wants to hear, are you?"

"Nana," he sighed, smirking, "You **know** I don't think that! You're my second favorite person in the whole world!" he added, his slight smile growing when she laughed.

"Speaking of my little Harmonica… how is she?"

"She's great," he answered. "Fantastic, even! And, actually," he added, "She's sitting right here, and really wants to talk to you."

"Wonderful! Put her on! And CB? I really am very proud of you! Congratulations!"

"Thanks, Nana. Here's Monica," he said, then immediately handed the phone over to her.

"Hey, Nana! How are you?" Monica asked excitedly.

"Sweetie, hi! I'm doin just fine! And I hear you're doing fantastic!"

"Yeah," Monica laughed, "I am. I have **fantastic** news!"

"**More** fantastic news? Let me get my heart pills, then!"

When Nana laughed, Monica did, too. "You don't have heart problems, Nana! You're gonna live to be two hundred!"

"Oh, God, I hope not!" she joked, then asked, "So, what is this fantastic news?"

Monica laced her fingers with Chandler and smiled over at him before announcing, into the phone, "I'm engaged!"

"That **is** fantastic news! Congratulations! I was hoping I'd still be alive, when he finally popped the question!"

"Oh, would you stop!" Monica teased. "You're not **old**!" she insisted, and Nana laughed again.

"Well, somebody should get a letter to my body then, and inform it! So, how'd he do it? On one knee? Give you one of those romantic speeches he's so good at?"

"The works," Monica laughed, "And in front of everyone! It was **so** sweet!"

"You got yourself a keeper, there!"

"I know," Monica whispered in reply, leaning heavily against him, sighing contentedly when he wrapped his arm around her.

"When did he do it? Recently?"

"About thirty minutes ago," Monica answered.

"Child! What are you doing talking to me, when you **should** be dancing between the sheets with your fiancé right now?"

Monica blushed slightly. "We're getting to that," she answered, somewhat uncomfortably. "We, just, wanted to make a few phone calls first."

"Well, make 'em quick and get yourself to bed!"

Smirking, rolling her eyes, Monica muttered, "Yes, Nana, we will. You're coming to the wedding, right?" she asked, and Nana scoffed.

"Child, a big burly Russian with a butcher's ax at the door, couldn't stop me!"

"I love you, Nana," Monica laughed, then, wrapping up the call, told her, "We'll be dropping his book in the mail tomorrow, don't worry."

"Thanks, Sweetie. I'll call you when it gets here, and then again, when I'm done reading it. And, tell CB again, how very very proud I am of him!"

"I will," Monica promised, then said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. "She's very very proud of you," she whispered to Chandler, and he nodded as he kissed her hair.

"So, who did you want to call next?" he asked, hoping she would say that they could make them later and get on with the celebrating, which she picked up on.

"Just a couple more," she promised, then suggested, "Your mom."

"God," he groaned, then smiled slight as he took the phone from her and dialed the number. "Hey, Helga, it's Chandler."

"Oh, hey there, kiddo! How are you?"

"Fine, thanks," he replied politely, then immediately asked, "Is my mom there?"

"Well, she is, but, she's in her zone right now."

"Of course she is," he laughed, with a roll of his eyes, then announced, "Well, I have important news, so, tell her for me, that she's just gonna have to get it back **after** she talks to me!"

"Yeah, well, I can try."

"Thanks," he laughed again, then waited for his mom to pick up. "Just doing **this**," he whispered to Monica, "Should show you how much I love you."

"Oh, hush," she scolded him. "You know she loves you!"

Shrugging, he then quickly returned his attention to the phone, when his mom's voice rung out.

"Chandler! Darling! How are you?"

Tensing slightly, bracing himself for the upcoming conversation, he answered politely, "I'm fine, Mom. How are you?"

"On the final chapter of my latest book, but, I stopped my flow to talk to my son! Because, apparently, he has important news to tell me!"

Her well known and often used brand of sarcasm caused him to roll his eyes and sigh. "I do," he replied, then announced, after a brief pause, "Monica and I are engaged."

"Finally! I get grandchildren!"

"Mom," Chandler warned, his slight irritation noticeable in his tone, "One step at a time."

"Oh, fine! So, I hear you got your advance copies of your book. Frank said you were as giddy as a school girl."

"Nice," he muttered sarcastically, then laughed as he insisted, "I wasn't giddy! Just… excited. It's my first, ya'know? Kinda a big deal!"

"Oh, I know, Darling! I remember my first! _Mistress Bitch_. I was excited, too! Of course, your father didn't understand that."

Chandler sighed, not at all interested in hearing her rant about his dad. "Yeah, well, I was just excited, cause, that's how I proposed to Monica," he explained, changing the subject back to his engagement. "In the dedication," he added.

"Oh, how romantic! Good for you, for making it special!"

"Yeah, well, she deserved it to be," he replied, smiling at Monica affectionately.

"Oh, I agree! She is just **precious**! Is she there? Can I talk to her?"

When his smile dropped, Monica questioned him with an arched eyebrow. "She wants to talk to you," he whispered, his hand over the mouthpiece, and Monica laughed as she nodded. "Behave, Mother," he said firmly into the phone, then handed it over.

"Hi, Nora," Monica said as she took over the call, to which Nora scoffed.

"Oh, Nora! Please! Call me Mom!"

A twinge of sadness crept in, combining with her joy, but she struggled against showing it in her tone. "Um, sure, Mom, thanks."

"So, my dear… grandkids. When?"

"Um, we're not sure yet," Monica answered, smirking at Chandler, who rolled his eyes in response, knowing instinctively what had been asked.

"Well, ya'know, Dear, if he gives you grief on that, you can always just conveniently forget to take your birth control pills."

Forcing a laugh, Monica replied, "Um, yeah, I guess… I could… do that."

"What did she just say?" Chandler asked, in a whisper, but Monica just gestured that she would tell him later.

"Men sometimes have to be tricked into such things. That's how I got Chandler. Of course, Charles gave me grief, because he was a closet homosexual. Which Chandler isn't. But, I think a lot of men balk at the idea of children. It's in their nature. Charles balked at having sex at all, though. But, again, that's because of the whole, gay thing. If I'd had a penis, I doubt he would have."

Monica's mouth dropped open, looking back at Chandler in shock, and he knew from that alone, that his mother had crossed the line again. He signaled for the return of the phone, and without even saying goodbye, she handed it over.

"Hey, it's me again," Chandler informed her, adding in a careful, almost hesitant way, "Monica had to go… answer the door."

"Oh. Ok. Well, actually, I need to go, too. Frank is breathing down my neck, for the final chapter. I promised it to him a week ago!"

"Yeah, ok," Chandler sighed, relieved. "I kinda need to go, too. We just wanted to give you a quick call, but, we want to get on with celebrating," he added, then cringed when he realized what he had just implied, and that his mom, of all people, would pick up on that and say something inappropriate.

"Oh, of course, Darling. I understand **perfectly**. But, now, remember, it helps with the conception of my grandchild, if Monica has an orgasm at the same time as you. So, don't forget to engage in a lot of foreplay. And, make sure you play with her--"

"Mom!" he interrupted, before she could finish the sentence, "God! Stop! For the love of God, **stop**!"

"Oh, fine! You're such a prude! Tell Monica I said congratulations, ok? Is **that** appropriate enough?"

He could hear the sarcasm in her tone, and laughed. "Yes, Mom, that's fine. I'll tell her," he promised.

After hanging up the phone, he threw himself back on the bed and yelled, "Fucking hell!"

"Why? What?" Monica laughed, and he groaned in response before answering her.

"She was about to tell me, how to conduct **foreplay**!"

Laughing again, she purred as she slithered up beside him, "She doesn't need to tell you how. You already know."

Moaning as soon as her hand began to caress him, he whispered, "Please tell me we're done with the phone calls for tonight."

"We're done," she assured him, then asked, "Want me to show you, how much I love the ring? And how much I love **you**?"

Moaning again, he nodded, sighing when she started unbuttoning his pants, his eyes drifting shut as she worked the closure and zipper open slowly. She exposed him just enough, then her lips were on him, and he knew what she was planning. She rarely did that, not that he cared. At least, not enough to make an issue out of it. It just made it all the more special, when she **did** do it. The anticipation of it nearly had him on the brink.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity of teasing, she took him into her mouth, and he groaned low in his throat as he squeezed his eyes shut tighter. He knew if he looked down at her, the visual would take him over, and he wanted to enjoy it for a few minutes, before that happened.

"Honey, slow down," he whispered, breathlessly. "Give me time to really appreciate it."

She complied immediately. Almost too much so. He groaned again, in slight frustration, but he didn't dare ask her to speed up. It felt incredible. Better than incredible. Like, if it lasted forever, it would end too soon.

Despite knowing what the outcome would be, he couldn't resist. God, he was weak. He propped himself up on his elbows, took in a shaky, shallow breath, held it, then opened his eyes and gazed down at her. There was barely even enough time to warn her.

"Mon," he choked out, almost whimpering, and she knew. Her hand took over, and the last thing he saw before his eyes slammed shut in pleasure, was her smiling up at him.

Pulling his arms out and to his sides, he collapsed heavily onto the bed, smiling slight and sighing when he felt her crawl up beside him and snuggle against him.

"What'cha thinkin?" she asked, after several silent seconds, and his smile grew.

"What I'm thinking," he answered playfully, "Is just a little bit too dirty to share."

Laughing, she suggested, "Give me the slightly cleaner version, then."

That was one of the things he loved about her. She was easy to talk to. She encouraged open communication, in every aspect of their relationship. Even if something embarrassed her, she would discuss it. There was nothing he couldn't say to her. Nothing she couldn't say to him. No topics barred. It had always been that way.

"I'm thinking," he told her, "That I'd like to show **you**, just how much I love you. Just how much I loved buying you that ring, and slipping it on your finger. Just how much you wearing it, means to me. Just **how much**, I enjoyed what just happened. I want to taste you, and give you the kind of pleasure **you** just gave **me**."

"Yeah," she replied, teasingly sarcastic, "I'm glad I asked for the cleaner version."

"Can I, Mon?" he asked. "Can I show you, in **that** way?"

"Of course," she answered without hesitation.

The ease in which she answered surprised him. Shifting onto his side, he stared over at her, a slight scowl on his face. As good as their communication with each other was, he had never broached that particular subject with her before. "You've never seemed very fond of that," he stated carefully, resting his hand gently on her hip, when she blushed in response.

"It's not that I'm not fond of it," she told him, looking away, the familiar flush of embarrassment reddening her cheeks, and he kissed her lips, softly and quickly, to regain her attention.

"If it's not **that**," he asked, "Then, why do you seem to shy away from it, whenever I… try to?"

Shrugging, blushing deeper, she answered, "I feel… obligated, to do it in return."

"So, it's the giving, not the receiving, that you're not fond of?" he asked, and she nodded, almost ashamedly, in answer. "Why?"

"I don't know," she whispered, averting her eyes again.

"Yeah, you do," he countered, his tone soothing in contrast to the slight accusation. "Tell me?" he asked of her. When she didn't respond, he asked, "Is it because I taste… bad?" She immediately shook her head. Somewhat relieved, but still completely confused, he asked, "Why don't you want to tell me? We can tell each other **anything**!" he added.

Rolling onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, she whispered, "It's embarrassing."

"The act itself," he asked, "Or, telling me why?"

"Well, both," she admitted, "But I more meant, telling you why."

Sighing, he inched over and draped his arm across her, pulling her closer. Not allowing her to distance herself from him. "It'll only be embarrassing for a moment, I promise, and then we'll have it out in the open, so we can talk about it. Ok?"

He could tell she was working up the courage, so he nuzzled into her hair and fell silent, patiently waiting for her to get there. When she finally did, her answer surprised him.

"You're… too big," she stammered reluctantly, knowing without even seeing his face, that he was smiling.

"Honey, I know you're uncomfortable right now, and I'm sorry you are, but, can I just take a moment to gloat about that?" he quipped. She rolled her eyes, and tried not to laugh, but a little chuckle escaped anyway. Smirking, he then sighed, a serious tone and expression following. "First of all," he told her, "If **I** like giving and **you** like receiving, then, ding, ding, ding, we have a winning combination! Secondly, you are **never** obligated to do **anything**! And, thirdly… thank you."

That time, she did laugh, but then sighed before whispering, "You always know just what to say."

"And I hope I always will," he laughed, pulling back to gaze down on her. "Monica, Honey, if you're only comfortable doing that on occasion, that's fine! You never have to do it again, if you don't want to! I'll miss it, cause I really like it," he admitted honestly, "But, I wouldn't as much, knowing you were unhappy doing it, ya'know?"

"It doesn't make me unhappy," she said, "It's, just…"

When she trailed off, he asked, "What? It's just, what?"

Sighing, frustrated, she told him, "It triggers my gag reflex. I **do** like doing that for you," she hurriedly continued, "Because I know how much you like it! And, I like doing it, **too**, when it's not… well, triggering."

"Honey, why didn't you talk to me about this before?" he asked.

"It's embarrassing, for one thing," she answered with a shrug, "And, I didn't want you thinking I was doing it, for the wrong reasons."

"The wrong reasons being?"

Sighing again, she muttered, "I didn't want you thinking, that I was only doing it, to 'keep' you."

"I would **never** think that," he insisted. "I know you have **way** more self-respect and integrity, to do something like that. I just figured, it was one of those things, that you didn't much care for, and only did it on occasion, when the mood struck you."

"Yeah, **that's** the answer I shoulda gone with," she quipped, laughing, and then he did, too. "Can I change my answer to **that**, please?"

"Sure," he joked, "But I'll have to deduct points off your final score."

"Darn! There goes my 'A'!" she mock pouted, but that quickly dissolved, when he touched his lips to hers.

"Trust me, Mon, it won't affect your score **that** much," he whispered, with only a hint of a smile in his otherwise serious expression. "**You**, are a straight 'A' lover," he added, his smile widening when she laughed.

"Well, as long as we're giving out grades…" She kept him in limbo for several long seconds, an impish smirk on her face, before finally whispering, simply, "'A' **plus**."

His smile grew, before dropping completely, and then his lips were on hers, kissing her affectionately, showing his appreciation for her compliment. "You can talk to me about anything, Mon," he whispered. "Everything," he added, gazing down on her as his hand began to slide sensually up her body, under her shirt.

As his hand caressed and played with her, as his eyes remained locked on hers, she whispered, "Chandler, I want your lips on me."

"Where on you?" he asked with a well hidden smirk.

Shyly, she admitted, "Everywhere."

Humming in approval, he brushed his lips across hers, and asked against them, breathlessly, "Do you want them on **your** lips? Your neck? Your breasts?" When she nodded, he kissed her, then lightly grazed them down her neck as he lifted her shirt and pushed her bra out of the way. His lips only left her skin momentarily, to relocate lower, descending to nibble on taut flesh. "Do you want them on your tummy? On and around your cute little belly button?" he asked, smiling against her, so she could feel him doing so, when she nodded again.

Shifting positions, he climbed on top of her, straddling her, his lips softly winding a path down to her navel. Kissing it, tonguing it, he then asked, "Do you want my lips between your legs?"

Sighing shakily, she nodded, then whimpered, "Yes."

Before the quiet word even left her, he was unbuttoning her jeans, and then he hooked his fingers around them and her underwear both, dragging them slowly down and off. He teased her first, like she did him, his kisses traveling across her hips, to her thighs, and then back up again as he prompted her to part her legs with his thumbs, gently but firmly. The anticipation was unreal. She almost felt like she couldn't breathe. And then he was there, causing her to gasp and cry out. Arching her back, she moaned as he tortured her with slow, delicate licks and kisses, driving her closer to the edge, until she finally fell over with the whimpering of his name.

An almost smug, self-satisfied grin inched onto his face as he crawled back up beside her, gathering her to him and kissing her shoulder as she struggled for air. "Did I keep my 'A' plus grade average?" he asked, laughing when she nodded emphatically. "Be honest with me about something," he asked of her, pushing off his pants that were still gaping open, leaving him exposed. "Did you know I was going to propose?" As she shook her head only in answer, her voice gone as she continued to recover, he whipped off his shirt, then returned to her side. "Good," he whispered, nuzzling up against her affectionately. "I wanted it to be a surprise."

"It was," she assured him, then, changing the subject, mentioned, "Your mom asked me to call her 'Mom'."

"Yeah," he sighed, "I caught that. How do you feel about that?" he asked.

Shrugging, she said, "I guess I'm ok with it. Still not the same, though, ya'know?"

"I know," he whispered, pulling her tighter to him, consolingly. "Did you want to go tell her, about the engagement?" he asked carefully, and she shrugged again.

"Dad said, last few times he went to go see her, she didn't even really know who he was." He nodded, resting his chin against her shoulder. Sensing there was more to her thoughts, he waited silently for her to continue. "It's weird, what she can and can't remember," she mused sadly. "She can remember hating me, but she can't remember **you** at all."

"She doesn't hate you, Honey," he insisted gently. "It's, just, part of the illness."

"I know," she sighed. "Feels like hate, though," she added.

"I know it does," he returned supportively, lost for how else to respond. For all his abilities to string words together, he could never find the right ones, when the subject of Judy Geller came up. Initially, it seemed to help Monica, when it was learned that her mother's hatred for her came from a progressive mental illness, and not from sheer irrational spite, but that was short lived. Knowing didn't change anything, or make the loss she felt any less real. "Hey, ya'know what we should do?" he asked brightly, trying to steer her away from the sadness that had started to set in. "We should go out tomorrow night with the gang! Maybe go to The Plaza for drinks or something. Have ourselves a little engagement party!"

A slight smile formed, but her expression still held a hint of melancholy. "That sounds like a good idea. Maybe invite my dad?" she asked. "He doesn't get out much, since he retired, and Mom was institutionalized."

Try again. Go for a joke. "Yeah, sure! Sounds good! I'd invite my mom, but I think your dad would run screaming from the building, if he got stuck talking to her for more than five minutes!" It worked. She laughed, and he smiled at the sound of it.

"Dad's gonna be **so** happy, when I tell him!" she announced excitedly. "He's liked you from the beginning, ya'know," she added, like she was proud of him for impressing her father.

"Really?" he asked, somewhat surprised. "I just figured, he liked me by default! Cause his little girl liked me!"

"No, no," she assured him, "Trust me! He really likes you! Told me once, that polite guys like you are rare now-a-days!"

"Being forced to call everyone either Sir or Ma'am at boarding school, actually paid off then, I guess!" he quipped, and she rolled her eyes and smirked, but quickly gained seriousness once again.

"What do you think your dad will say? When you tell him?" she asked cautiously, knowing the subject of his father was a sensitive one.

"Oh, he'll be happy for us, for sure!" he answered casually, but she could tell it was somewhat forced. "Probably race right out, and go shopping for that perfect dress to wear to the wedding. Something backless, or with a plunging neckline. You know, like most fathers of the groom do," he added jokingly, and she laughed, but only because she knew he would feel better if she did.

"You're gonna invite him, though, right?" she asked carefully, but lightly, almost cringing as she awaited his answer.

Shrugging, he muttered, "I suppose. Why?" he asked in return, "Is it important to you?"

"Chandler," she sighed, "I know how hard it's been for you, to find a place for him in your life, but, down the line, don't you think you might regret it, if your dad wasn't there to share in your big day with you?"

"I understand all that, Monica," he sighed, "And it all sounds very logical, when you say it like that, but, there's just, more to it. It's not that simple," he added.

"Is it the gay thing?" she asked, sighing again when he did.

"I've already told you, no," he answered. "It's like, I grew up with one man, and then, suddenly, at the age of nine, that man didn't exist anymore, and I had to get to know this whole other person! Which was hard to do, since he was never around!"

"So, get to know him now," she suggested, shifting with him when he rolled away from her and onto his back. "Don't be mad," she whispered, smiling when he laughed.

"I'm not mad, Honey," he insisted. "I'm just, frustrated. I don't know how to be his son, Mon," he sighed, "And I **know** he doesn't know how to be my father."

"So, you'll both learn, together," she told him, kissing his chest before laying her head back against it. "Just, try, ok? For me?" He groaned in response, and she knew she had him.

God, he was weak. Not to mention whipped. He would jump into shark infested waters, with a pork chop strapped to his ass for her, though why he would need to, he didn't know. Suddenly, he laughed, the mental image of himself swimming away from Jaws flying into his mind, and she pulled back to look at him questioningly when he did.

"What's so funny?" she asked curiously, but he just shook his head and encouraged her to lay hers back against him.

"Nothing," he answered, then sighed as he promised her, "I'll try."

"So… you'll invite your dad to the wedding?" she asked hopefully, and he nodded in response.

"I'll invite him," he whispered. He could almost hear her smirk. Smirking as well, in response, he asked, "You enjoy the power you have over me, don't you?"

Laughing, she answered, "A little bit."

"Mmmhmm," he hummed with a sarcastic lilt, "Just, don't abuse it."

"Never," she whispered, then changed the subject, mentioning somewhat casually, "You know, I was thinking, once Ross reads your book, he's gonna know how many times we danced very near, and pretty much over, **the line**."

"I guess," he muttered as he shrugged. "It's been four years, though," he reminded her. "You really think he'll care?"

"Probably not," she answered, almost dismissively. "I was just saying, is all."

"Yeah, well, if he gets weird," he suggested, "I'll just tell him I embellished certain parts, to make it more dramatic or something."

"And… the arrest?" she asked carefully, surprised when he laughed.

"Mon, Honey, stop worrying. Ross no longer has any kind of hold over our relationship, ok? So what if he freaks out? I'll explain it to him, and if he insists on being all bent out of shape over it, he can just go get… **re**-bent. **We**, are forever. Ross' tudes, are temporary and baseless! Besides," he added with a slight laugh, "If he gets too annoying, I'll just sick Nana on him! She **loves** me!"

"That she does," she agreed, the smile she was wearing in response fading as she pulled back to stare down on him. "Ready to continue with our celebration?" she asked, her tone leaving him with zero doubts as to what she was implying.

"What did you have in mind, my future bride?" he asked playfully, and a slight grin appeared, and then turned mischievous.

"Oh, only your favorite position," she answered with a teasing lilt, then immediately began to climb on top of him.

He smiled up at her, helping her, then asked, "And, what about **you**? What's **your** favorite position?"

"You… on top of me," she moaned, as she started to move with him. "Your weight, heavy on me. Your body, pressing against mine."

Moaning his approval, his eyes slowly lifted to lock with hers. It was all so simple. Everything, from his love for her, to the power of their relationship. She was his entire world, and always would be. He'd known for a while. For years, in fact, but it was never more clear and obvious to him, then it was in that moment. With her alone, he'd found his happily ever after.

**The End**

Author's Notes:

I'm really sorry this took so long to get out. I struggled with this chapter, for some reason. I had tons of ideas for it, but stringing them all together, and adding elements I didn't have planned or predetermined, I really struggled with.

A huge depression has taken hold, so, I just don't even know right now, when I'm going to be writing again, if ever. When it lifts, I might change my mind, but at this point, I can't promise anything.

I hope this chapter didn't ruin the rest of the series, with its suckiness.

Thanks to 'Ms.SJ', for her feedback with this chapter! Did you act surprised?

Thanks to my beta reader, for her assistance throughout this story, and in particular, the very end.

Thanks to everyone, for all the reviews and positive feedback.

Please review.

MTLBYAKY


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